No God in Us but Song

Ruffs are optional for trebles in Anglican church choirs. — Wikipedia Bored in the balcony reading your novel hoping it will keep me awake — religion was always a blind spot — with my Sunday headache waiting for the service to finish so I can retrieve my little chorister, no god in us but song, while pale important teenage Sophia in blue head chorister ribbon, face dumpy as a Flemish burgomaster, bosses littler kids and loves leading them expressionless in paired rows from the choir stalls, holding the processional cross high, shushing and huffily eyeing them for babyish disregard of cleanly neatness, my own chorister dripping orts of tissues she stows in her sleeves for sniffles, in the choir room struggles out of her ruff ringed dark brown inside from years of child chorister sweat, hair oil, dead skin. Me:Your other ruff was white and clean! Her:Sophia said it was too big. She gave me this one instead. I showed her it was dirty and tight. She said “deal with it.”