Poplar Madonna

Four days ago, Monday morning, before breakfast. Yoshiko calls me. "Keith, we have a Black Madonna." I look out the dining room window, at the naked poplars and bare oaks we see every winter morning, from our breakfast chairs we sit at every morning. 

"Where?"

"Right there, on that poplar."

"She looks more brown than black. Why is she here? Should I be creeped out?" 

After breakfast I go outside. I say "hello, we are very sorry about you losing your son, nice Jewish boy. He was a good person. We understand, we lost a child." I am talking to a tree. I take her picture. Her features look vaguely Asian.

The next day she is still there. I go outside. The weather is mild, above zero. I tell her, You can stay here as long as you want. We aren't going to pray to you, or build a cult. So, if you need a place where you can just be yourself, chillax, as the kids say, you are welcome here. I guess you lost your son twice, first by the Romans, then two days later he disappears. Must be horrible for anyone, even you, Mary. We aren't going to pray to you, but we will chant for you, the Mystic Law.

Yesterday, she is still on the tree. Yoshiko asks me, "should we call someone? Send the picture to the newspaper?"

Absolutely not. Every wack-job will be here, claiming miracles and making this a pilgrimage route and building shrines. Leave her be. I almost say, if the mother of god wants something, she'll let us know. But, I catch myself before the words come out. That would be me, being creepy. 

Why is she here, at our place, the Poplar Madonna of the Skins?

Maybe no reason. Maybe she is just an odd mark on bark. Maybe as the seasons change she will disappear and we will forget she was ever here.