In Front of Her, Three Figures

She wore a long, formless coat.

Multicolored, the patterns transformed like chameleon skin, changing from checkers to crosses to hounds-tooth to checkers to vertical lines. The garment moved like willow branches, swaying gently with each step.

The woman passed me, crossed herself, bowed, and sat at the end of the row, two aisles up.

In front of her stood three figures. The Mother, the Son, and in the middle–the most colossal–the Mother holding the Son. All were gilded in some way (garment fringes, crowns, scepters), and all wore that same, still face.  Something like a mix of anticipation–no, that’s not right–anxiety, sadness, longing, and china doll blankness. Three of them looked directly at me, only the baby stared heavenward.

The woman paid them no attention, staring only from her seat at a figure blurred by passing faithful. The Pregnant Mother with Child, the placard read. The woman’s eyes were moist and still, focused and preparing to cry.

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