II

My brother did not like to pray. He always found it too relaxing, and he more than once dozed off when he should have been thanking god for his gifts. Even though my gifts were fewer and my sins graver, I always prayed joyfully and in earnest. It was like I had a third parent. He was just and forgiving, and he loved not in spite of my flaws, but because of them.

We were sitting in the local church one morning, going through the centuries-old rituals. As we said the ancient words, out voices rose up to the rafters, filling us not with the words of many, but a single word in a single universal voice.

‘Gloria! Gloria! Gloria!’

And our voice grew higher, and we felt the walls shake.

‘Gloria! Gloria! Gloria!’

We became the church with its ageing walls. We became the air, alive and ringing with our sound. We became each other, each body bleeding into the next, smearing into its neighbours and into theirs beyond, and on, and on, until all the world sang in our voice.

‘GLORIA! GLORIA! GLORIA!’

We sang as man. We sang as woman. We sang as a twittering of birds and a chattering of squirrels. We sang as a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder. Our voice was a booming of drums and a squalling of trumpets. All of creation roiled and finally exploded in us.

‘GLORIA! HALLELUIAH!’