The woman’s dress, it almost brushed the floor.

The cold stone in the cathedral and all I could see was the fabric to my left as she sat there. The golden swirls, maybe paisley, maybe African, I’ll never know. 

And to the right of her ochre and viridian I sat quiet and tried to regain myself. 

And she helped us when her language wasn’t ours, when our battered tourist phrase book didn’t work.

And I wonder if she ever thought of me years later, of  the young woman who she helped, taken ill in the arms of Our Lady and did she remember the warm blanket of her words. 

I did.

She sat with me in silence until the taxi came and in broken English, as we left, she blessed us with healthy children. And I was grateful for her words, her care, the sanctuary of her presence. And a year later in the healthiest of pregnancies, in my blooming, I was so thankful for her prayer. 

With thanks to the woman whose face I never saw, who came to my rescue, who helped us when we needed it and I wonder what she’s doing now and I send her back a prayer.