Joyce and the Gold Cross

It was one of those restless nights when the past quietly crept into my thoughts, stirring memories of moments that shaped my journey. I found myself drawn back to a time twenty years ago, a chapter etched with both pain and growth.

I had just left my ex-husband. Whether love remained or not, leaving was never easy. Something profound had shifted, and I knew I had to move forward, no matter how hard. One evening, as I sat alone at my desk in an art gallery, Pachelbel’s symphony played softly from a CD, its melody wrapping around the room like a tender embrace.

Through the gallery window, I noticed an older woman walking past—a vision of grace and elegance. Her well-tailored attire, the gentle sway of her steps, and the air of dignity she carried were mesmerizing. I couldn’t help but stare, captivated by her aura. To my surprise, she paused, as if sensing my gaze, and turned back. She entered the gallery, her presence commanding yet comforting.

“Why are you so sad?” she asked, her voice soft yet firm.

There was something about her—an unspoken understanding—that dissolved my guard. Words poured out of me as if I had known her all my life. I told her my story, the struggles of being newly alone, navigating a foreign country with a small child, and the weight of fear and uncertainty that had taken root in my heart.

She listened intently, her eyes holding a wisdom that made it seem as if she already knew. Then, with quiet conviction, she spoke.

“You need to read Women Who Run With the Wolves. It will help you understand yourself better,” she said. “And remember, men sometimes hate the women they love. It’s a truth I learned after divorcing a well-known lawyer here in Calgary.”

Before leaving, she asked me one more question: “Are you Catholic?”

I nodded, unsure where this conversation was leading. She left, only to return shortly after, holding a small gold cross pendant. She placed it in my hand and said, “Wear this always. It will remind you of who you are and where you come from.”

Her name was Joyce. She became a guiding light during that turbulent time, visiting me regularly at the gallery. She brought strength, solace, and a perspective I desperately needed as I pieced my life back together.

Tonight, as I lay in bed, her memory returned to me vividly. Perhaps there is a reason why. Maybe tomorrow I will uncover the meaning behind this recollection. But for now, I carry her wisdom, her kindness, and that golden cross close to my heart.

Good night, sweet dreams, and may we all have a Joyce in our lives.

Joyce i Zlatni križ

Bila je to jedna od onih nemirnih noći kada mi se prošlost tiho uvukla u misli, uzburkavši sjećanja na trenutke koji su oblikovali moje putovanje. Našla sam se privučena u vrijeme prije dvadeset godina, poglavlje urezano sa bolom i rastom.

Upravo sam bila napustila bivšeg muža. Ostala ljubav ili ne, odlazak nikada nije bio lak. Nešto se duboko promijenilo i znala sam da moram ići naprijed, koliko god teško bilo. Jedne večeri, dok sam sjedila sam za svojim stolom u umjetničkoj galeriji, Pachelbelova simfonija tiho je svirala s CD-a, a njezina je melodija obavijala prostoriju poput nježnog zagrljaja.

Kroz prozor galerije primijetila sam stariju ženu kako prolazi pokraj —izgledajuci kao vizija gracioznosti i elegancije. Njezina dobro skrojena odjeća, nježno njihanje koraka i dojam dostojanstva koji je nosila bili su očaravajući. Nisam mogla a da ne buljim, očarana njezinom pojavom. Bila je puna neke uzvisene ljepote I dostojanstva. Gledala sam je sva zabezeknuta kao tele u sarena vrata. Nisam mogla da vjerujem kakvu divnu energiju i auru je nosila ta predivna zena. Na moje iznenađenje, zastala je, kao da je osjetila moj pogled, i vratila se. Ušla je u galeriju, a njezina je prisutnost bila moćna, ali utješna.

“Zašto si tako tužan?” pitala je, glasom koji je bio mekan, ali čvrst.

Bilo je nešto u njenom neizgovorenom razumijevanju— što je raspustilo moju stražu. Riječi su se izlile iz mene kao da je poznajem cijeli život. Ispričala sam joj svoju priču, borbe da budem sama, da plovim stranom zemljom s malim djetetom i težinu straha i neizvjesnosti koji su se ukorijenili u mom srcu.

Pozorno je slušala, a oči su joj držale mudrost zbog koje se činilo kao da već zna. Zatim je, s tihim uvjerenjem, progovorila.

“Morate čitati Žene koje trče s vukovima. Pomoći će vam da se bolje razumijete,” rekla je. “I zapamtite, muškarci ponekad mrze žene koje vole. To je istina koju sam naučila nakon razvoda od poznatog odvjetnika ovdje u Calgaryju”, mudro je izgovorila.

Prije odlaska postavila mi je još jedno pitanje: “Jesi li katolkinja?”

Klimnula sam glavom, nesigurna kamo vodi ovaj razgovor. Otišla je, da bi se ubrzo vratila, držeći mali zlatni križni privjesak. Stavila mi ga je u ruku i rekla, “Uvijek nosi ovo. Podsjetit će vas tko ste i odakle dolazite.”

Zvala se Joyce. Ona je u to turbulentno vrijeme postala svjetlo vodilja, redovito me posjećujući u galeriji. Donijela je snagu, utjehu i perspektivu koja mi je očajnički trebala dok sam ponovno sastavljala skeleton svog života.

Večeras, dok sam ležala u krevetu, živo mi se vratilo sjećanje na nju. Možda postoji razlog zašto. Možda ću sutra otkriti značenje iza ovog sjećanja. Ali za sada, nosim blizu srca njenu mudrost, njenu dobrotu, i taj zlatni križ.

Autorica, Antica Zovko