May 16, 2007
Here in the sand we talk about the single, sad church bell at St Aidan's, and the scrawny string that slanted down from the hole in the belfry floor; angling slackly to the stone pillar and looped twice around it. We remember the secret cues from the pulpit, of which the ovine congregation were unaware; at which I, or you, depending on who, would quietly rise from our stall (stifling the swish of starched surplice) and unloop the cord, and at the right moment pull, just a little ahead to allow for delay. Our bleak, fake campanology. Our thin childhood.