Toga

With a suppressed sigh and the slightest hint of poignancy, I looked intently at a friend’s picture. She’s wearing a toga, the kind members of the choir wear in church. I used to wear the same thing – its folds all pressed to perfection and pristine in its whiteness. An unexpected stab of regret pierced through me as I realized that, sadly, I’ll never wear that garment again. Since I left the fold, singing church hymns, which used to be a source of infinite gladness, is now reduced to a dim memory, an irretrievable fragment of the past. What remains is a sweet sadness for all that was lost and, in return, for everything I have gained.