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Today I am in church again. I have come for silent reflection in one of my favourite seats, but it feels a little closer to the edge than usual. Shuffling footsteps in the aisle have me predicting who might be about to go past. Slowly and steadily polar bears are settling into the pews around me. Their black claws lightly clasp copies of The Book of Common Prayer. One across the aisle is flicking the pages randomly as if speed reading, another puffs out fishy breath in celebration of finding the right page. One on the row in front asks me if I am going to sing today. I open my mouth to answer but nothing comes out. The bear smiles encouragingly before turning back to face the altar. The pair who held one another’s hands to get to the front row wink at me when the rector says we’re going to the pub afterwards. There’s a dubious stain on the opening pages of my hymn book. I keep it tightly shut, resist the urge to look again at the hint of fingerprints within the brown. And I am worried that the youngest bear is going to bite the gold cross and I won’t know whether to try to stop him or not.
Sue Finch 