On a mission of sorts. A messenger of doom. The message, a concentrate of the absurd. She had the ground pulled under her. Now she was passing on the favour. To pull the ground from under another. Traveling light. 40 years of accumulated baggage to lug across 3 continents, so she was traveling light. It was the middle of the holiday season and the airport was oddly not buzzing with the usual bustle of traveler's hyperactivity. As if in respectful quiet of the loss being anticipated. Mourning in solidarity. With ample time on her hands she drifted absentmindedly through the airport formalities.
"Yes just one piece to check-in. Thank you".
Finding the right words to hand out a verdict without a trial was hard. The right words, nothing more to offer. She was going over her lines, discarding them, making new ones, discarding them. Nothing more to offer but the right words.
"No, no liquids M'am. No sharp objects. Can I have my shoes back?".
What was it about conflicts that made such a powerful claim on her allegiance? She could instead have just stayed with the passive side.
"YOUR PASSPORT PLEASE!" resonating out of the ether now, beaming her mind back into the present, for only as long as necessary. And then it wandered off again. Far off into the distance.
The sign-board said 'Raum für Gebete und Stille. Meditation and Prayer Room', complimented with the Ohm, the Buddhist wheel, the Cross, the Crescent moon and star, the Star of David and an arrow pointing up. Grateful now for the time at hand, she followed the directions almost in relief. The door led to a black walled corridor that wrapped around and led to a square room. The room itself had a white floor and was flooded with bright white light. There was a thick tree trunk in the center going from the floor through the ceiling with an array of inscriptions etched into it. Oriental kneeling rugs were stacked up on one side. She stepped into the room, and almost immediately stepped right back out again feeling uncomfortably exposed. Retreating instead back into the dark corridor, seating herself on a bench. Comforted by it's blackness. Happy for the solitude. She sat there a while and looked around, now dedicated to her thoughts without distraction. Breathing. Sitting there, not hearing, not noticing. And when she heard a voice say "Hello......what are you?", She almost instinctively responded with "Desperate". Instead she took a moment to register that she now had company in this room of Prayer. Another similarly aged woman, of fair skin and frizzy golden hair. Going by her bags and attire, also a traveler in transit. Her accent was elusive, pointing somewhere south of Europe. "What are you?" she repeated. Not pushy, not gentle, simply asking. Realizing now what her question meant, came the delayed response "Christian". "Here then, keep this". Her cupped palms opened to reveal a coiled white rosary. Nesting there, it shone with hope and strength and peace. A pearl.