The Rosary

Deirdre Cunniffe

Hail Mary, full of grace

You were always far more of a poet than me. Maybe now I am catching up to you, scrawling across some separate page. Your lovely penmanship, my barely legible hand. Poetic in and of itself, no?

The Lord is with thee

We were younger, with little to make metaphors about. Yet, you insisted if we had existed in some other time, one further back, I would have been a constellation. You showed me, taking my hand and pointing it towards the night. A few pieces of Cassiopeia, parts of Ursa Minor, some of Cepheus, and Polaris. A songbird, you said. I asked where the constellations which were already there came from (I knew). You laughed in response,

“Some sort of wild storyteller.”

I wonder what you have to say about the songbird, storyteller?

Blessed art thou among women

We were products of the church choir. Your mother adored me. I was a lovely catholic girl with a kind smile, talking at a mile a minute, bowing my head for grace at the table, waking up early on Sundays. I could sing through the hymnals of a service, sit still for the sermon where some holy man would tell me, tell us, we were evil. That there was some part of us weaker than the rest, that we had to renounce it to find the heaven they made us sing about. When we got older, you would let the church guide you, let your family lead you. I would stop talking about this part of my life, palms up against my thighs in a pew. My family leaned away from the harm that the altar can cause, and I am grateful for that. The hymnals still sit heavy in my chest.

Holy Mary, mother of God

We were connected by many things and nothing at all. You were quieter and gentle and enchanting. You drew people into you with your slender fingers,bell-like laughter, and kind eyes. There was a sternness with which you loved, a product of your Polish-American upbringing. “Don’t do that, it’s dangerous,” “Be gentle, don’t hurt yourself, don’t be ridiculous.”

I was a firecracker, loud and bright and out of control. All wild blonde hair, bright green eyes, hips too wide for my body, strong legs, echoing laugh. I loved with my whole body, the same way I had been taught. “Have you eaten today?” “How is your ma?” “I missed you.”

Pray for us sinners

Perhaps in some other lifetime, we were both able to stay. There was no frigid January after spending the holidays apart, me with my family in the mountains, you with yours in a church pew. After you tore things apart, I was gentle with you, and your love revealed itself. “You’re being too kind to me,” “If an outsider were to look at this, I’d look evil.” You would have. We both knew that. I wouldn’t let you be the bad guy, though. I wouldn’t let you remember our love with a bitter end. It was the only lifeline I could give you then.

“Yell at me. Tell me I’m awful, please.”

I wouldn’t.

The Bible in your nightstand is still there. A heady presence, a reminder. I wish I could make you forget. All I could do was make you remember.

Now, and at the hour of our death.

Perhaps one day we’ll run into each other once more. Maybe we won’t even recognize one another.

I doubt it, though. You have burned something into my skin, fingertips, and handprints seared against a freckled chest and shoulders. Like a sinner in church, I’m sure I’m some sort of devil in the front of your mind. Such a tragedy you loved me, isn’t it?

I know I was your greatest sin. I’d do it again.

Amen.

Red wasn’t always Blood.

Red was Blush.

It’s toddling steps bubbly yet daring, Ready to feel and comfort and kiss the hurting world. The dawn it was born into wore its rosy tiara of sky with dignity. Then, Red was cherry.

It’s still-learning voice alive and pleasant, Cadence like the playful dance of a berry’s tart and sweet. Selfless, kind, equal parts curiosity and peacemaker. It had the mirth of the child it was, yet the quiet and understanding of an older soul. Then, Red was ruby.

It was brilliant, sharp, perpetually radiant.

Delicately fierce, its honed, smoothed composure effortlessly fascinating those around it. Too selfless to ever state what it wanted, but still magnificently beautiful in reservation. Then, Red was true rose.

Had a crimson ardor for the world and the things it held It learned sorrow, it learned jealousy, it learned love. But most deeply, love.

No one wanted to believe it, though. They did not want the outcast they were going to make, to be capable of feeling.

No one wanted to represent violence, the frontman for an institution of immorality. The one whose eyes might pool with abundant, plump tears that Reflected everything wrong and vile in their fluid windowpanes. It was far too much work.

Too costly.

So,