She took my picture, and the sun, she said, was perfect.

I'd asked her for pictures to use with my music.  Music I'd been writing with such voracity it was as though I hadn't had a chance to speak my entire life.  Music that while every bit a part of me, also seemed to live outside of me as songs arrived, pounding on my brain, leaving me collapsed in bed with my guitar and a scattering of paper.

She took my picture as I sat on a stoop next to a church.  I wrapped a red scarf around my neck, and an older man walked toward us.  He wore a navy jacket, a knitted cap, and he didn't say a word, but he handed me a rosary, gestured for me to wear it, and asked to take my picture.  Afterward, he showed me the picture on his camera, pointed to it, and said, see?