I don't know Jane from London. A woman sits in front of me writing words in a notebook. Smiling, love covorts around her lips and gathers in the corners of her mouth. She sips her coffee, the only place we have ever met, and shares words that would cry if they had eyes and were alone. She speaks of Jane from London who travels, dropping her tea and crumpets costumeonly to find another upon arrival, somewhat tattered with sticky expectations and decades of being. She's seeking alchemy and freedom, magical elements of something called home that has no pin on any map. This Jane sits in front of me, a now naked stranger under a desert sun, whose heat has burned away the last tattered threads. She holds a needle threaded with hopethe color of green and blue trinkets, and sews a costume of saguaro needles, adobe and acceptance. She has turned to gold. I don't know Jane from London. If I met her down a green and drizzly lane I might walk on by, not even curious to say hello or ask about the weather. I only know Jane, adobe mud embedded in her pores, with her new traveling cloak reflecting nothing but a cloudless blue sky. I say hello Jane, and she says goodbye... to everything that came before. And as she steps off the plane in London, cloak billowing, this Jane arrives home.