by Johnna Ryan
Dim and somber, the room was motionless and silent, existing without energy, without movement, without breath. White plastic chairs covered the slick gym floor, coarse and grainy; uncomfortable for sitting, their primary purpose. The seats were framed by opposing bleachers, royal blue seats navy in the darkness. All the seats were filled with begrudging spectators.
All the lights were gone, save for the spotlights pointed at the temporary stage displayed at the head of the gym.
Bins of water lined the stage, foot washers kneeling in front of each one with a white towel placed haphazardly on their shoulder. Behind the bins of cold water was a small band setup, with four singers partnered with a guitar, a keyboard, and drums.
Slowly, participants from the floor cycled up the makeshift stairs onto the rickety black stage. They each sat behind the tubs, and the foot washers leaned forward and sprinkled water over their feet, rubbing them with the robotic love of mandatory tradition.
The Footwashing Ceremony happened every year, and was strained through the faces of those rubbing the audience’s feet dry with quick, sharp movements.
One could only stand in the bleachers and watch this tedious event unfold for so long as the gym filled with the thrumming singing of hymns. My eyes began wandering away from the stage and scanning the rows of bored onlookers.
As the music grew and the audience voices became nonexistent, my eyes slipped sideways to the bleachers opposite myself. And then upwards, to the small, railed landing on the other side of the gym.
Movement in the otherwise frozen space dragged my eyes to the left, where a girl in green raised her hands to the dark, hidden sky.
From her vibrant pose of praise, she vaulted into a leap across the chill ground, her feet floating above the smooth, wooden floor. Her dress, shades of such sage green that it filtered gray in the dim, dusk world, swirled around her figure in worship, in ways the ceremony below her could not dare to imitate.
She turned in time with the music, freezing and igniting in her solitary but un-lonesome waltz across the landing. And I could not turn away.
My gaze was held by the green dancer, and the love with which she moved. Nothing existed but the music, reverberating through the air and dragging her to unsteady knees, her arms raised and tears running down stained cheeks.
As the voices of worship faded, I ripped my gaze from humble praising knees and stared down at the stage of scheduled submission.
Johnna Ryan is a poet and writer studying English at Palm Beach Atlantic University, and her writing has appeared in Living Waters Review and Westmarch Literary Journal. She can often be found in the wild, either at coffee shops sampling outlandish teas, or loitering at her local library.
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