Written by Anya Ekelof

Belief

We look at the statues in the drizzle at Val-de-Grace. 

You say you used to feel sorry for my type. 

You knew I wouldn’t go to heaven, because I’m one of those. 

I nod. I agree. I won’t go to heaven. Because it’s all made up, just like the Santa Claus you believed in until you turned ten. 

Although you’re still on the fence about Santa.

We stand in front of the church. 

It’s dripping in gold. My church, that I also don’t believe in, is sterner in appearance, but they let women lead, they marry the gays, they pray and work, and hope for the best.

But something about this opulence attracts me. I’m a magpie for the bling.

I look down at my hands. I’ve clasped them in prayer. 

We both laugh. I say it’s because I’m cold.

It’s a funny thing what we believe in.

Anja Ekelof is a writer based in Paris. Born in Sweden she has worked in Dublin and Edinburgh for over thirty years. She is currently studying for a master’s degree in creative writing and is editing a novel.