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It was hot.
Boiling hot.

I tugged the
shawl over my
shoulders as I
entered yet
another church.

I'm not Catholic.
Far from being
religious, either.
I just thought that
I needed to be here.

I was a few weeks
away from leaving
to join the U.S
Air Force.

As I walked in to
the large, main room,
I knew this wasn't
any ordinary church.

The roof was
a high dome,
the tiles aged
and broken.

All around me were
statues and paintings
of Saints.

If you didn't know the
history behind this
holy place,
You'd think it was just
another chuch.

But if you looked closly
at the dome so high up,
you'd notice a circular form
of plaster and new tile
where a bomb was droped
durring World War II.

The bomb had dropped,
piercing the dome's ceiling,
dropping to the floor below
and skidded across the floor.
But it refused to blow up.

Times like those made me
wish I had more faith.
But to me,
it was a stroke of major luck.

I left the sanctuary and into
a room where a man was
selling prayer beads.

I made my way to the back
corner of the room,
slithering through some
other tourists.

And then I saw it.
What I came for:

The bomb.

Well,
a replica.
But still.

It stood half my height but
was as wide as an oversized
plate.

An oversized bullet that
weighed more than it looked.
It made my heart
skip a beat.

I swallowed and left,
lugging myself back to the
domed room again.

As I entered,
my eyes found the ceiling
and gazed at the dome.
I eyed where the bomb
had possibly hit.

I sunk down in a chair feeling
suddenly heavy,
as if I wighed as much as
the bomb.

I stared at the shrine.
A woman close to me prayed,
talking to her God in what I guessed
was Maltese.

I glanced down at my own hands
that laid dead in my lap.
For the first time in years,
I was unsure of myself.

My eyes wandered to the people
of all nationalities in the room
who were lost in prayer.

I stared up at the pictures of Saints
who seemed to glare down at me,
suddenly making myself feel
small and vulnerable.

My eyes found my hands again.
Should I pray?
I closed my eyes,
sweat on the back of my neck.

Was I making the right decision?
I thought about the bomb in the
other room,
and thought bout all the places
I might have to bomb while I'm
in the Air Force.

I thought about the churches lost,
The people who had lost their faith.
The families losing loved ones
And the people we never see again.

I put my hands together,
feeling completely numb
as I kneel on the pew in front
of me.

Should I pray?