It turns out it’s really hard to follow a memorial rosary if you aren’t Catholic. It hadn’t occurred to me to look it up or anything; apparently you can still think you know everything and be wrong at forty. Why the universe thought I needed a smack to my humility, I’m not sure. The universe had been hurling some rough stuff at me the last couple of months. To be honest, it was starting to feel personal.
As the pews around me echoed in unison I panicked and looked for a cheat sheet: no hymnal, no bible, no leaflet…come on, Holy Angels. No help for the secular? I guess that’s what I get for being a heathen. I shot a panicked glance at Corey but couldn’t catch his eye. Despite being raised Catholic and he was clearly disinterested; he answered the priest robotically. Can’t fault him for that, I guess. It IS his grandmother’s funeral.
Half an hour into the rosary my mind started to wander and I found myself looking around the room. The woman across the aisle had closed her eyes in concentration and was counting off one wooden bead for every Hail Mary. Corey’s uncle, ahead of us several pews, stared at the casket. The fist at his side was clenched and white. My eyes landed on Cheryl; the matriarch of the family was seated in the front corner. Every few minutes her eyes swept the crowd making sure everyone was okay.
I was okay until I heard the first notes of an acoustic guitar.
And then something in me broke.
more.bad.poetry 