His mind shifted among apprehensions that attempted to strangulate his prayer whilst he was saying and living the sorrowful mysteries. The cross felt solid in this hand as he grasped tightly. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit”. His finger felt the image of The Crucified projecting from the cross, with folded knees and tilted head mourning for humanity. “I believe in God, the Father almighty…”. The flat surface on the back of the cross would entertain his fidgeting instincts whilst he prayed. He knew “Anno Domini 1968” was imprinted on the back, the year he received his First Communion and, with it, the rosary. Although he knew the letters, they blended together as he ran his fingers across them.
“Our father who art in heaven…”. Each bead was textured with a blooming rose, ‘a clever detail’ he would always think during the preamble. He spun the counts nervously and felt the fragile, yet unbreakable, chain. “Hail Mary, full of grace…”. At this point, diminutive particles of metal would already be on his fingers, emulating purpurine that came from the rosary, yet leaving no trace of decay on the metal. “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning…”, he prayed, just as his mom had taught him. Maybe that was why he would associate the rosary prayers with a sweet smell, just like his mother’s perfume; a soft blend of lily and roses capable of activating seemingly irrecuperable memories of his childhood and his mother’s caress.
Not this time though.
This time it was different. Each prayed bead was not an act of thanksgiving but an act of supplication. Appealing to God was the only natural thing to do in this unnatural situation. He never felt at ease in hospitals. Especially not today, nor on the day his mother passed. Despite his efforts, he would constantly have to restart prayers. The beeping machines keeping her alive were distracting. He would lose count and pray extra Hail Marys to compensate for any he passed over. Doing 70 or 100 Hail Marys seemed like a reasonable sacrifice anyway.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…” The last time he remembered fiddling so much with his fingers was in the summer of 72. Hands behind his back, head tilted down. Mrs. Ivana had put him on the spot in front of the whole class. More than twenty sixth-graders stared at his bewildered face, worthy of ridicule, as the teacher attempted to whip him into shape for a sin he had not committed. A compilation of libertine drawings on the blackboard attributed maliciously to him was enough to allot all the blame on him. Mrs. Ivana had had no pity, nor had asked questions. Wrath came down upon him, despite his innocence, to serve as an example to the class. He remembered at that time he had also prayed quietly whilst his hands got whipped.
Just like now.
His child had been knocked down by this malignity. There was no who, no how. There was only the suddenness with which he would, once again, have to suffer for something he did not do, “… as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”
Mary was also the name of his child. He believed that the choice had been because of how the sound made him reminisce about the ocean. Mary. Mar. Mer. He could see the foamy crash of the waves from the window of his beach house on both occasions when he held his wife tightly, comforting her, offering hope that they could try one more time. On their third attempt, their child survived. Frankly, whilst he asked Mary, the Holy Mary, to save his daughter from this illness, he was now aware that the rosary had been his main influence in the choice of her name.
“Pray for us sinners…” He knew this was not just a prayer but a battle to see who retracts quicker: his demons or him. Maybe it was his fifth Hail Mary. Or his eleventh. The suffering was asphyxiating. Fears and anguish haunted him at night and fatigue slowed his day, removing his capacity as a whole. In a kind attempt, his boss had told him to take a leave and be attentive to his daughter. Gratitude and apprehension filled his heart; every day, fully dedicated to her. Every one of the 24 hours nourishing his fears without distraction, waking and sleeping at the foot of her bed. “Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
He was thankful, however. He felt close to Mary. To both. Grasping his daughter’s hand he pictured how Mary would have held onto Her son’s hand bathed in blood. The Mary of his rosary suffered what he was going through now. Losing their children, watching death dance before their powerless eyes, holding tightly onto the remaining hope of not having reached the end, but the beginning.
His prayers improved as her condition worsened; doctors spent more time in her room as their diagnosis shortened her life. It was ironic how amidst the blinding disappointment of life he was starting to see God more clearly. The sharp elucidation of the soul that could only be obtained by suffering.
Among distractions, his mind recovered the recurrent dream he had been having of his daughter by the shore. The family rejoiced at the sound of her sweet voice and pureness of heart. While building castles, she unburied an eccentric shell with her small hands. From within the seashell, the most delicate voice echoed, singing with a high pitch melancholy. His eyes flooded with tears. Every follicle of his body became erect. His hands tingled. He gasped at the wonderous notes. When he conquered the overwhelming sensations, he perceived his daughter walking recklessly towards the moon, intonating the tune herself, through the waves that reflected the extensive satellite half peaking over the horizon. At the attempt to call her back, he discovered himself unable to utter any words nor feel any of his limbs. The transcendent sensations were exchanged by woeful certainties. He knew her fate; the tragic dream overburdened his emotions as if it were the last time he would see her. Jolting his head, he would wake, lacking breath, with the melody still echoing sorrowfully, as if from a distance.
Born to be
an heir of beauty and serenity
Into this world she entered quietly
To her surprise, she was the one
As the days unraveled, his dreams foretold the events. The cardiogram flattened. Air ceased to lift her chest. Her pulse faded away. The motionless blood cooled in her hands. The Devil tempted him by infusing doubts about his faith, questioning what his prayers were all worth. Among tears, he revisited each of his sins looking for justifications.
He had heard from an old friend that death brings life to the dead, a mysterious axiom with practical evidence. All the memories emerged: the way she staggered on her first steps, lurching backwards and forwards; her contorted face at her first bite of chocolate; her little princess dress for Sunday Mass; the soft and affable embraces he would receive for returning home after work…
He felt the selfish impulse of asking the insistent rhetorical question of those who mourn: ‘Why her?’, except he knew the answer. She had been his salvation. The turning point of a once unfaithful couple came through her. Punished by stillbirth, they felt unassisted until he saw his dusty rosary hanging on his mother’s photograph. Kneeling down, he broke the silence and impulsively started with the promise: a soul for a soul, he would recuperate his faith if his next child survived the womb. As a reply, She told him the only condition was he had to uphold his end first.
And so he did.
Pregnancy came and their anxiety was silenced month after month, surmounting the nine months, until the occasion in which he saw the miracle happen, summarized by the sweet cry of a baby, calmed at the breast of her mother. An infant born to the world; a soul re-born to the Church.
Yet, Mary did not belong to this world. She had a very specific mission and it had been accomplished on the day of her very first cry. Now was her time to return home. Like a match that ignites and extinguishes after the old candle is lit again. Her soul for his.
His fingers still fiddled with the rosary. He knew nothing was lost. The love he had for her stanched his sorrows and turned them into joy. He had looked down at his child laying on the bed; now, his child was looking down at him from heaven. An eternity of suffering that reached an end. A fleeting moment that became an everlasting grace. Mary met Mary, his Queen, and his princess together. “Hail Mary, full of grace”, now my child is also with Thee.
