was dead leaves or a thin layer of snow, but she hoped it was snow. They walked for a while, then stopped. Where are we? she asked. At the Christmas tree. And her mother let go of her hand. Emiliana reached out her arms in front of her, turned, stepped a bit to the side until she felt a tree trunk. Is this it? she asked, but she never heard her mother’s answer. Instead, she saw the face of the Virgin emerging from the trunk in front of her, glowing, radiant, burning almost, flaming from the wood and looking directly at her with such blue eyes Emiliana believed there had to be a new word for blue, looking at her with such love she thought there must be a new word for that, too. Mary smiled at her, and then lifted a hand to Emiliana’s brow. The hand, though on fire, was cool and made Emiliana think of rivers in places she’d never been. And then, without a word, Mary told her to open her eyes. When she did she saw the trunk of a white oak tree, one of many standing in the park. To her right, her mother was gazing at another tree, the city’s Christmas tree, strung with lights and garland. Emilana looked down to see the snow under her feet, and when she turned back to the tree from which Mary emerged, the vision was gone. When she told her mother what she’d seen, and that she was no longer blind, she didn’t believe at first. No one did. They thought she was imagining it, re-imagining the world around her as she once knew it. But she wasn’t; she was healed by the Virgin and the sacred heart of Jesus, as her grandmother would later tell all her friends, laughing so many different shades of laughter over tea or coffee. With the New Year, two things happened: the tree where Emiliana saw Mary appear was made into a shrine by a local group of Catholics, a portion of its trunk encased in glass, and flowers were draped all around it, photos of lost children and prayers scrawled scrap paper scattered at its roots. Women went to it, praying for their children, and men—the men from the street, who leaned against buildings—went too, praying for something of their own. As for Emiliana, she made the decision, at eight years old, to join a convent. She was turned away by many—too young, too young!—until one accepted her. And she grew up within their walls and got lost among their trees, another anonymous saint.
Jacqueline Vogtman | 37