I remember going to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. 2015: I close my eyes and there are two gold light forms, one standing one kneeling in the dark I am in love to the point of tears and I remember the church split into sevenths and I miss that time for once I miss the crumble of rock being my highest point the Holy Scrolls suspended bathing in sage when I forsook the other namesake the alleyways of the market Herald Square of the God tailgaters finding St. Jude on the subway. I try not to cry in the last class. Mom is with me and one day you will be too. Overwhelmed, I see visions of the desert-stuck pyramids of my words, my writing. My teacher said, “What do you know about her?” and the boy said, “She is a writer.” She is a writer and you are hers and the field in the future is both of yours. ♦

My St. Jude subway experience. St. Jude is the saint of the hopeless, the lost causes. I found this prayer card on my morning train ride to school after a very important reunion, and a series of unfortunate events prior to that.