The mountain chapel

My host had no intention of leaving the warmth of the house for a walk in the mountains. Their house, where I spent the weekend, is nestled in the Jura. A cloud stopped at their gate iding the view of Lake Geneva and the Alps. My hostess and I decided to g6 anyway.

We only had to drive a hundred meters up and we were in brilliant sunshine. We stopped at a snow-covered path that had both tread marks from boots and bird tracks. At the top was a small chapel, relatively new for this part of the world, having been built in the mid 1880s.

Outside the chapel a couple with two small children had set up a telescope to see if they could penetrate the fog below.

Inside the chapel I took one of the long tapers and lit it for Jack, my stepmom’s father. He and I were both born July 24th albeit many years apart. I remember her lighting a candle when the two of us were in Carcassonne shortly after both Jack and my Dad died. Although I am far more pagan than Catholic, I said a prayer for him, feeling his god would understand. My gods don't really have much interest in the foibles of individuals. The Hail Mary was written in French on the wall and was also on sheets of paper to take away. I slipped one in my pocket to send to my stepmom.

A notebook was next to the candles where people had left messages as well as a box covered in a faded yellow fabric where people had deposited prayers. My hostess and I read the messages, wondering if Sylvia recovered and did Anne-Marie find work. Despite the breath-seeing cold, a feeling on comfort pervaded us and the building.

Outside the family had packed up their telescope and began the trek down the path. We lingered near the apple trees that looked like they were in bloom. The tips were covered in such fine snow that it was possible to see the outline of the flakes. Above, the sky was almost royal blue and the sun felt warm on our faces.

The man walked back up the path, his eyes scanning the ground. He wandered back and forth where his telescope had been. “I lost my keys,” he said.

We helped him look sometimes kicking the snow aside with our boots. Nothing.
“Is it your car keys too?” I asked. He nodded.

His wife joined us. Then he bent over and scooped up the keys.

“He is always loosing them,” the wife said.

“Key hunting should be an Olympic Sport,” I said.

Together we made our way back down the mountain and went our separate ways back into the fog.