Congregation

They come on the ninth day. They always have, since before the building had a roof.

Nobody leads it. That’s what I love. No priest, no speaker, no one out front. They stand on the ring, close together, backs to me, facing each other, and after a while somebody starts talking about their week, and then somebody else does. Somebody’s roof. Somebody’s kid. Whose turn it is to cook for the old man on the third floor.

The Architects built this hall for worship. For four thousand years, every ninth day, it has been used as a kitchen table. I’ve never been so glad to be ignored.