The Eyes of St. Paraskevi

In Thessaloniki, city of saints and ghosts, St. Paraskevi gazes from the hood of her forest-green cloak. She holds a cross in one hand. Her other hand carries a bowl laid with two eyes. Tucked between stores selling spices and socks, her open chapel floods with firelight. Inside, the Cat Sisters of the Resurrection stretch into the heat. Stare into space. Heat is killing hikers on the islands. Wildfires will burn close to Athens. I gaze at the bowl of eyes, drop a coin in the box, finger a smooth, yellow taper. Hold it to fire from another candle in the sand flat. Plant one for my family. Soon they’ll be packing to flee the Line Fire near their California home. Smoke from the Bridge Fire will surround their  house perched at eye-level with clouds. My daughter-in-law will drive my granddaughter down the mountain to safety,  passing fires on both sides of the freeway. She will return home to my son. He will cut down a dozen trees. Erect a sprinkler on the roof. Three thousand miles east on Watch Duty, my eyes will structure the tears behind icons as other eyes rummage the drawers for a taper. I find one. Light it. Pray.

Heather H. Thomas
12.9.2024