The Meadow 133 For Everything There Is A Season Meredith Kay As Bridget walks hand-in-hand with her girlfriend to church on a spring morning, she wonders just how damned she would be if she continues to hold her hand once they were inside the chapel. As if somehow reading her thoughts, Bridget’s girlfriend—Fran—gently squeezes her fingers and sways their hands back and forth. Bridget glances at her. Fran offers her a smile, a dimple indenting her cheek, and Bridget has no choice but to smile back. The anxiety floating in her head doesn’t dissipate as a result, but the fog of it does lose some of its density. The morning is cool enough to warrant a sweater, which both of the girls are wearing (Fran with one of Bridget’s she had thrown on last minute, and Bridget herself with a desaturated green sweater). There was a light mist that left the earth smelling damp and fresh, rising from grass that had been watered overnight. Said mist was shone through by a bright and warm sun, giving off an air of exhilaration. The inherent excitement of the morning only serves to fuel Bridget’s anxiety, though. Fran, however, hums and almost skips as they walk along, her dark brown bob swaying with her movement. Her constant movement jostles Bridget through their entwined hands, keeping her relatively grounded from her thoughts. It is something she is inexpressibly grateful for. They are walking across a path that cuts through the church’s large, well-cared-for lawn. It’s unusual for an establishment to have so much space all to itself in New York City, but it is on the outskirts of town, and it is, well, a Catholic church. Funders of the building project were most likely wealthy with extravagant tastes, of which “big space” and
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