"Downstairs is the grotto of the nativity," Sol says. "I wait for you up here."
We follow the crowd to a set of stone steps.
"I didn't know the manger was a cave," James observes.
"Tradition," I say.
We can't see or feel the cave, however, because of the expensive hangings that cover every inch of the stone stairwell. But whatever the original opulence, the designs of pomegranates and lilies droop in tired pleats, the metallic tassels hang in tarnished weariness, and the gold threads
are frayed and thick with dust.
We reach the cave floor and line up to touch a gold-plated star around a stone where the baby apparently hit the floor as he fell from Mary's womb.
We kneel one at a time to touch the stone.
It's cold and moist with cave drippings and seepage.
"I just wish they could let well enough alone," Rory says as we unflex again and he stares at the tapestry-covered walls.
I pat his clammy arm. "I don't think religions work that way. I don't think they ever let anything alone."
