Saturday

I haven't written here all week. I've been writing other places, for other things. But the week was wonderful, the week was sacred.

The room still smells of incense after Shabbos prayers. Everyone here is purified. All minds are clear. The week comes to an end in holy peace.

Saint James is having a bookstore sale. The bookstore has been shut for a while. So I bought two rosaries, one of blue glass that was only five dollars, the one I'd always wanted, black beads, that was only one buck. It was a day of sales. At the incense shop a box of Nag Champa which ought to be at least-- on a good day-- six or seven dollars is there for two. The woman at the counter slips one of my bills back to me.

On the bus I take out the bag a sniff the incense. It is rich and deep. The boy across from me, black hair, black rimmed spectacles says, "What kind is that?" I pass it to him.

"That's the only kind you get. That's the good stuff he says."

I've seen him before, I think, last week he was going on a protest rally when the President came.