The door creaked open a bit, letting in the scent of incense down the hallway. Shadows danced on the bedroom walls, leaving the corners in darkness. The flickers came from the kandili beside the family’s icons in the corner of my mother’s room. I made sure not to think that my mother worshiped those images. She once said, “These holy pictures are like windows for us, a peek into the eternal worlds while we’re stuck in this one.” It was tough for a kid like me to wrap my head around that. But every time I kissed an icon, I reminded myself I wasn’t worshiping it.
I nudged the door open a bit more, trying to slip into the room without being noticed. Stepping onto the woolen rug, I tiptoed to the edge of the bed. There, I saw my mother on her knees, arms outstretched toward the iconastasi. Her back faced me. Slowly, she stood up, crossing herself. In the reflection off the icon of St. George and the Dragon, I saw my mother’s face. Her image overlapped with the saint’s, dividing her nose in half with the saint’s spear. One eye covered the saint’s chest, while the other floated above the horse’s bridle. The tip of her eyebrow touched the captured princess’s crown, her mouth a cushion for the Dragon’s back.
Mother’s greying hair framed a perfect silhouette within the silver frame.
Welcome — I’m glad you’re here.
Journeys and Star Gazing 