November 4

Rain pounds Victoria—

an atmospheric river, they say.

I shove what I can into a bag:

laptop, wallet,

my grandmother’s charred icon

of the Annunciation.

She fled Smyrna in ’22—

fire at her back,

smoke rising from the harbour.

She found this burned wood

in the rubble,

carried it across the sea.

I kiss the icon, cross myself

trust

in the Panagia’s protection.

I drive into the storm.

The roads blur.

My hands grip the wheel.

I don’t look back.