hands tiptoe to
midnight

I lay in bed reading
the beat of still air silenced
only by our breathing
myself, a dog and two cats

my eyes suddenly
wander. hanging on the full length
mirror is your rosary

a collated strand of clear beads
each encased in a lacy dome
of tarnished brass

I remember how it came to be mine
that night, you held them
gently wrapped in your hands

the rosary nearly matching the reddened
make-up I thought they had used too much
of, touching up your moustache

but I couldn’t let it go
something of yours
perhaps of grandma and grandpa’s

and somewhere in that fog of time
between your viewing this night
the funeral next morning

I asked for a trade

another cross on a chain
found among your things
for this keepsake

this rosary
I don’t even pray

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