I dreamt of tiny figurines, porcelain robin's eggs tinier than my pinkie nail, so minuscule and breathtaking, shining. Little men glazed red, tiny shiny sheep. they all fit in a little box. There is a cathedral, with a confession room, the stained glass glows a holy blue, and there is draping that is endearing and comforting, like a childhood fort. The sunlight glows through the window, and I can remember those Sundays, the sitting, standing, kneeling, my dad and I adding the numbers of the listed hymns; we waited, staring at the vaulted wooden ceiling suspended yards above us. The air outside was crisp, and the sun shone ravishingly on our shoulders. All of the people I met outside the doors after service, the adults who said I looked like my mother, and my brother and I would run about with the other shiny shoe clad children... before we went out to breakfast, buffets of renewable eggs and endless biscuits, or stacks of pancakes, but mostly just the comfortable release of formality.