Transient - English version of Passageira

Walking downtown on a sunny afternoon to fulfill tasks familiar to any grown person who lives by themselves, she was just about to pass along the sidewalk that held one of the bank agencies. As usual, at a corner near the door was posted a flower seller. A seller of roses of all colors, with their graceful bouquets set together like children in a wooden box.
Without slowing down her pace, but lowering herself a bit to take a closer look, she noticed the red and the yellow ones, which were more at sight. She smiled to herself and, while she went on, exclaimed:
- Oh, how beautiful they look!
Despite hating leaving the house out of obligation, the day was lovely and it pleased her to see the life on the streets. It made her feel at least a little like she was part of all that. Every now and then she would stop to look at something that caught her attention – be that a shop window or the way the sun rays touched the leaves on the trees.
Having done what was necessary and making her way back paying attention to the sound of her own steps, she got surprised when she blinked and a bouquet of fresh flowers was put in her hands. Everything happened so fast that she didn’t even have time to say proper thanks or at least look at the man.
- Pink ones for you. – she heard the man murmur. All she could say was “Oh! They are lovely” towards the cold, wet and kept together with newspaper sheets roses themselves, covered in water drops that looked like dew. She hoped that the fellow had understood that the gesture had pleased her, mostly for it having never happened until then.
As she walked she glanced at her unexpected cargo... They were at the peak of their beauty, with a relatively lively color, but soft nonetheless. She maneuvered them so that the newspaper sheets wouldn’t dismantle and saw the big thorns along the long stems. A reminder that the prettiest things are the ones that needed to be treated with most care.
Came back home wishing to have a proper vase for situations such as that, but she had to make do with an improvised rounded jar. She felt sorry for having to cut off some of the leaves so that they could fit inside the coarse glass that was put over the center table in the living room. For several minutes she saw herself sat on the sofa with eyes glazed upon the roses as it used to happen when the power was gone and she had to light candles. Maybe for the beauty in it and the flames themselves; maybe to wonder until when would the charm last.
She got up thinking of brewing a cup of tea when something she wouldn’t know how to explain (maybe an instinct) made her lay eyes on the roses again with the affection of a friend and walked out the door again – without sure destination, at first. She would go wherever her legs wanted her to.
When she stopped for an instant to situate and saw herself in front of the immensity of stone that was the church in gothic style that she hasn’t attended in a long time for no longer being religious in any way. It wasn’t mass time and the half-open wine-colored door gave the impression of being a mouth open to the void; both the vacuum of a black hole as well as the emptiness of the place itself at that hour, which remains in waiting and is not exactly inviting for many. But, on sharpening her ears, she heard more than silence coming from there. Even others seemed to notice the same thing, but not with the same attention.
The stomping of boots on the cold marble floor, kind of setting a tempo. Soft humming, very quiet, sometimes accompanied by other voices, male and female. The echo of a guitar picking, some syncopated handclaps. Everything seemed to fit together so well to the point of making her smile almost without meaning to. Before she realized, she slowly entered the practically empty church trying to keep the noise to a minimum.
She chose one of the pews at the back to the same left side where those people were more to the middle, near the altar. She had already been there twice in sunny hours – not exactly by her own will... Once again the church looked different during the day because of the natural lighting that crossed through the stained glass windows on the ceiling and high parts of the walls. But it wasn’t just that...
Would it be the voices, the music? Would it be the nice manner in which it broke the death in the church’s quietness, the emotion in the facial expressions of those people that didn’t seem to be from town, who sang a gospel classic? Would it be the grace with which the women in the group circled around the altar to stretch the legs and the reflection of a red and yellow stained glass staining the brown hair of the one who played guitar? Would it be the feeling that the church was lighter and brighter? Even the Madona that named the place seemed to peer down affectionately at them from where she was.
She enjoyed knowing that they were so focused on the song, on the imponent architecture, and on one another that they didn’t notice there was somebody else there. For the first time, she didn’t feel like she was intruding on something. At some point, she ended up closing her eyes and letting herself be absorbed by what she heard during what felt like a forever in which the song changed, getting more intense, but the atmosphere was the same. It was baffling that the priest hadn’t come over inquiring where it came from – he must have been at the parish house, listening...
Despite her current lack of belief, the lass had never been immune to well placed genuine words, therefore she could see poetry even in something that by itself no longer made sense to her. It was when she caught herself singing a passionate chorus along with the guitar player, as in a duet when no other harmonizations were happening. Her eyes were still closed, as though she were in her bedroom, where she sang with no inhibitions.
What was the last note of the very last chorus dissipated throughout the church like perfume and she slowly opened her eyes that were slightly foggy by small tears. For a few seconds, the church looked green-ish, but pretty nonetheless. The first thing her focused sight noticed was the singer with his guitar staring back in a direct, but very loving fashion. To her own amazement, she didn’t break the contact.
- Hello. How beautiful that was... – was all he said with a shy smile, messing with his hair.
- Hi. I thought so too. – she replied.
They bid farewell and parted ways (her, back home). Just like she would probably never see them again nor would live something remotely similar to what happened in that church, the girl knew that the roses on her table wouldn’t be there everlastingly. Watching them wither throughout the days, one petal at a time, was as magical as that present already past. Life fights for itself and keeps its beauty until the end.