Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now in the hour of our death.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now in the hour of our death.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now in the hour of our death.
Not-Catholic. Not-religious. I believe. Sure, I believe. In God, His existence, His purpose. As taught to me. As taught to me to believe. As believed by me to believe.
I don’t know any other prayers. Real prayers. I don’t know that I should pray, but as I hold her hand, the liturgy is comforting and so I say. I say, in my head, over and over and over …
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now in the hour of our death.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now in the hour of our death.
She doesn’t know me. Not really. She knows my name, but never bothers to say it. She knows that we share the same class, my grades on that Literature test I failed. She handed it over to me with a smirk. I remember. I remember everything. Some things. Not-things. The smirk that said, “I’m better than you.”
Not-me. Better than.
Holy Mary …
I remember her hand as she thrust the test paper in my face. The strong scent of her cheap perfume. Cheap. So cheap. I envied her. I wanted it. I wanted to be cheap. Like her. Cheap, but not. Available, but not. Not-me. Better than.
… Mother of God …
Her hand is soft. I hold her hand as sweat pours down her brow, her body convulsing with each unnatural spasm.
I hold her hand and focus on it like an artist looking with amazement at each beautiful detail. I study each wrinkle, each fold; the slight discoloration from years of using henna on her nails. I could draw her hand with accuracy. If I could draw.
But I don’t even know her middle name. If she has a middle name. If she was unfortunate to be handed down a list of ancestors’ names to whom my parents wanted to pay tribute. There’s me and them and them and them. Never just me. And then for good measure, there’s Praise to God. Praise to a god. Mother of God.
Mother. She’s a mother! My mother told me that’s what happens when It happens. You become a mother. She didn’t say pregnant. She said mother. A status assumed at coitus. Not-virgin. Not-me. Mother.
Is she a sinner? Am I, for offering to be here when she clearly doesn’t want me to be?
She approached every girl in our Literature class. Every girl, but me.
“ Just one thousand shillings,” she begged.
“Just one thousand. Just ten thousand to get it done. Please!”
Me, I didn’t have the one thousand to spare, but she didn’t bother to ask. Still, I came with her when no one would. I came. I hold her hand. Me! See me!
Perhaps she knew better than to face my judgment. She deserves my judgment. She is wrong.
She’s wrong to have it done. Wrong to have wronged everything that I think that that I think I believe in.
Wrong to have put in me in this dingy room, holding her hand, the horrible loud suction noise pulling it out of her.
Sucking, sucking, sucked lifeless. Not-life. Not-it.
… pray for us sinners …
He sent me a card. Not openly so that no one would know that he loves me. He loves me, but he’s ashamed. Ashamed that he loves me. I’m ashamed at his shame. I’m in love.
“Be my valentine tonight!”
Moaned when I should. Writhed when he ordered me. Was comforted by his smile. Titillated by his affection. He was in charge. I liked it. I was in charge. I WAS in charge. He was stunned when I walked away.
I am Good. Not-sinner. Not-her.
The nurse says it’s over.
It’s over? Not-mother?
She pulls her hand away in disgust.
“Go away! Why did you come? What do you want? What do you want?”
She painfully inserts the tampon, pulls up her panties, lowers her grey school skirt carefully so it’s not stained.
She’s ready to go. I want her to go. I hate her. I want her to stay.
I look at her hand, smell her cheap perfume and understand her.
No.
I understand her?
No!
I understand … me?
No?
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now …Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now …
I can’t recite it to the end.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now …
Not-sinner. Not-virgin. Not-mother. Not-me.
Holy Mary …
