Holy Mary, full of grace.

She always liked rosaries, not so much for their religious use, but for the bizarre power granted to what at times was nothing more than a handful of shoddy plastic beads on a tiny bit of rope.

The Lord is with thee.

She toyed with her grandmother’s during mass as a child, dragging the sharp edge of the crucifix across the mottled wood of the pew, digging a trench over which she placed the hymnal, shielding it and herself from notice by the other parishioners and perhaps the eyes of God. She did this every week.

Blessed art thou amongst women.

When she did have confession, on those days her Catechism classes actually met in the church, she wracked her brain for some vague story to tell, a sin straight from the Commandments.

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

“I did not honour my mother.”

Holy Mary, Mother of God.

“I stole a dollar from my brother.”

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

“I killed our dog.”

Amen.