The wind spun the day between charcoal and blue.
The basilica’s doors were closed ‘till tomorrow, not till tomorrow, 8 a.m.’
– That’s not much help to me today.
The small grey wooden church on the old road off the old highway was open. I stepped inside for the first time, and only then remembered the calendar. First Friday of the month: two dozen of the devout claiming their own pews, kneeling in preparation. The only candles were near the front by the altar where the priest was fussing over the monstrance. I sat quietly at the back, imagined a small flame, and left.