Cathedral of Faces

I am building the cathedral of faces. Initially it was by accident; but when I raise my head there are faces all around me, just such faces as would hang in just such a cathedral. They are distant, they are paper, but they are alive. They watch me, almost accusingly, but rightfully. They are waiting for me to get their stories out; meanwhile I spend my time on other things, and think of them, but that's no more than they themselves can do. They surround me intently and stare unblinking, as if reading the silences I keep. I wish desperately that I could read theirs; they open, but I do not understand the languages and so they, close, hurt and frustrated but patient, and wait for me to translate what is in their eyes. I do not have the keys. I have only the desire, and if not empathy, at least a little sympathy. They surround me because I put them there, on eye level, and have done so many times. There are some i know better than others, because they bleed into me.

There is a boy in a gold and red turban with an orange mark between his eyebrows, like a wax seal. He glares as if in impatience; there is a sense of nobility or authority in his face.

There is a young woman with green eyes that have been seen around the world. She was lost, she was found, she is angry and seethes a dangerous silence.

There is a man leaning on the long handle of a shovel. He wears a silver ring with a red stone on the little finger of his left hand. His turban and clothes are the color of dust, pleated under a ragged blue vest which once must have been beautiful. His face is dark and deep, unreadable, contemplative, patient, piercing, quiet. There is something ruthless about him, and his eyes are dark and familiar – he has watched me far longer than any of the others.

There is a little blonde boy from Kosovo in a grey sweater. His eyes are lowered a little; he looks as if he has endured more than a child of that age should ever have to endure.

There is a lama in red robes, his face is lined, benevolent, and knowing under a disconcertingly off-kilter yellow felt hat.

There is a girl in a black hijab; she looks frightened, almost pleading, but her gaze is somewhere a little to the right. There is darkness behind her; all visible is her face and her collarbone.

They have put some of themselves into my work. Maybe one day I will go to them.

But no fear; they are not the ones from before, and they will not leave the wall.