Dawn went into the chamber. She screwed her eyes shut and pressed her lips together the way a child does when they wish their mightiest wish on a flickering cluster of birthday candles. Her hands pushed down on something and I saw her swoon toward the glass, almost touching it with her forehead. Her lips began to move and I remembered my father, half-comatose, moving his lips in that sharp, silent way.
And here begins a short period of time I’m missing. My memories are continuous enough that I know it’s missing, though it was only a matter of one or two minutes. Dawn took a long time with the Black Madonna, praying for a child, I assumed, though I doubted an icon who could infuse Ignatius with his ascetic spirit was the right one to ask. I was in the midst of this thought when I realized I was before the Madonna. I didn’t see Dawn leave and I didn’t ascend the small staircase. I’m certain time wrinkled a bit, because this had happened before in my life. There was no meaning or pattern to these occurrences. I would be at the bottom of a staircase, then suddenly at the top, or sitting in one room, then standing in another. This instance was the first to be dramatic in any way.
I sighed, like the long-braided backpacker. The Madonna was dark and shiny, almost life-sized behind the scratched Plexiglass, from which protruded half of a wooden ball that reminded me of an adornment one might see on a grand staircase. The Madonna, protected, was holding the other half. In this way, you could touch her. She had the smooth beneficence common to beloved Madonnas, an expression both lively and peaceful, an effect of the shape of her cheeks and lips. Lord Jesus sat squarely in her lap, his expression that of a neighborhood pal who saw you coming around the corner and raised his hand in greeting. They were joyous and I understood why people traveled to see them. I placed my palm on the wooden ball and closed my eyes.
A bright, electric violet spread across my field of vision. This sometimes happened when I meditated, or when I visited the dental hygienist who hummed praise songs while she cleaned my teeth. I had no fervent desires, no particular suffering I wished to alleviate, no prayer inside me waiting. On a whim, I asked the Black Madonna to give me whatever she believed I needed since, like Ignatius, I’d entered a floating period of my life when I was without occupation or direction. I was aware of impatient pilgrims shuffling on my right, eager to enter. Then, I was aware of nothing but a hot crackling in my palm and a surge of energy that travelled to my brain, down my sternum, through my solar plexus and into my uterus and genitals. After a moment, I severed the connection, putting my hand to my side. When I opened my eyes, the Madonna was no more or less beautiful, and in this way seemed to dismiss me. I walked down the exit stairs. Dawn was praying in a little chapel to the right so I sat down in a pew near the door. The backpackers spoke in hushed tones behind me. I was dizzy and needed more water, which was surprisingly scarce.