For half a century she wandered around the outskirts of the city, lonely, poor, homeless, insane, half-dressed. She did not leave behind children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Who has been going to her grave for two centuries if she has no descendants on earth? Who decorates? For what money?

The freshly painted, delicately azure chapel is crowned with a gilded onion dome. A lot of candles burn brightly near the wall. People walk quietly along the path paved with granite paving stones around the chapel. There are many of them. Here is a young man in camouflage with a patch of internal troops making a bow; here are two girls in light stretch jeans; here is a young short-haired grandmother with her grandson in a stroller; here is a very young mother with a baby in a pink cap and with a pink pacifier, he is staring from a kangaroo on his mother's belly; Here are three women in long dark skirts with open books in their hands, reading the akathist in a low voice. Someone approaches, someone leaves. In the chapel itself, prayers are served one after another before the marble tombstone over the grave of St. Xenia. The prayer service is brief, only fifteen minutes. I walk out slowly.

A handy black-and-white cat with eyes as light azure as the walls of a chapel rubs against her legs.

A crimson leaf flies from the maple into the palm of your hand.

* * *

Why have people been coming here in an endless stream for two centuries in a row? Are they coming from other cities? What for?

For help, salvation, healing. And those who cannot come, pray to St. Xenia at home. In front of any paper icon. Without an icon.

"Mother Xenia, help me!" Helps.

The wonderful word "mother" has long disappeared from our speech. It sounds only in prayer, in an appeal to the Mother of God, to the saint. Moreover, it remained used in addressing the priest's wife. And somehow the heart does not feel its meaning, its meaning: mommy, mommy. Thus, out of our helplessness, we stretch out our hands, as in childhood, imploring; "Take me in your arms," we call out to the heavenly protector:

"Mother, mother, mother, save me!" Saves.

I will tell you about love. About how love for your husband became love for you, for me, for every person in the world.

Does this happen? It happened. There is such a thing.