She is kneeling palms raised wide, pointer fingers tracing a sundial, tracing the shapes of our Lord Jesus Christ the Savior over and over as to never forget. The carpet is a thick, wooly red rubber imitation of luxury, the benches handcrafted by the Racine carpenters that host their shop looking out onto the dip of the Great Lake. The whole room spills out in front of her, the long aisle flowing from marble to gold, flourishing with lilies and marigolds to mourn His sacrifice. She stands and proceeds to light her candlestick, smoking the room with frankincense and the memories of what was once forgotten. One prayer: Hail Mary, full of grace...
Her hands grace the edges of the Bible, as if she was embracing God’s face, kissing his tender lips. The wrinkles run deep, like rivers of holy water, shaping the canyons of her complexion, forming her into a monument of the passage of time. Slender fingers grip the pages, flipping, flipping, as if she was in a rush to finish, to understand what religion is about.
She holds, in her hands, her husband, grasping his shoulder clad in navy blue plaid. His glasses hang off the roof of his nose, librarian-like, as he inspects the Kenosha News. He grumbles at his newspaper clippings, muttering: “Those damn bastards just need to show each other love. God is love.” She can almost smell the wood chips on him, but her fingers grasp the old Polaroid and he exists no more.
All she says is:
The Lord has given. The Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.