It has always seemed to me that there is something big to be felt by a woman who has made up her mind to leave the things she knows and to go off to strange places. I felt the same for the rose cuttings I took from the garden down to the cemetery.
It is October and this night is clear. It is getting dark. Luna is downtown. It isn’t so scary to be downtown again. Soon she will leave and downtown will be no longer. She is downtown and carries a camera in her jacket, sometimes taking pictures, and sometimes writing poetry on walls. She rides her bike past a small and white church. The door is open and spewing light through a slit. It is beautiful light, spilling onto the sidewalk under the flicker of a streetlamp. She stops to take a picture, and a woman invites her inside. The church smells of old wood, of wax and of frankincense. It smells as any church should.
The woman is her mother’s age. She is blonde and wears black. She has a heavy accent. The woman says she saw God in Leningrad, and that is why she is here in the church on Campbell street. Luna watches the woman light a candle and kiss the altar. Luna is given a white rose.
She says thankyou and goodnight and then she leaves.