I got my first set of rosary beads from my mother to commemorate my first holy communion when I was seven years old. They were like little strands of pearls with a gold cross dangling at the end. Very dainty, very feminine, very sacred.
Unfortunately, I was Communion Girl from Hell.
I could never do the decants the way they were supposed to be recited. I kept mixing up the Our Father and the Hail Mary and the Glory Be. For every ten Hail Marys, you’re supposed to say one Our Father, to break up the set. Or maybe it’s the monotony. You move your finger from one bead to the next, a mental count to help you keep track.
I kept loosing count and was a mental case. I kept forgetting what number Hail Mary I was on, and then have to start all over.
I finally gave up and would wrap them around the dog’s neck, a holy dog collar.
My Irish grandmother, Bingo Mary, would have a stroke. “God help us, Patsy” she’d scream, “She’s at it again! Get the dog before he eats the Sacred Heart of Jesus!!” and she and my mother would go tearing after the poodle.
I have quite a nice collection of rosary beads at this stage in my life. I receive them as gifts, as tokens of love from people who travel to Medgigori and Spain. Fancy, plain, plastic, I have every color imaginable. Someone even gave me a set suitable for the blind. I wonder if they were trying to tell me something.
Every time I pray the rosary now, I think of Bingo Mary. I still lose track and I still get mixed up. But I know she’s up there, smiling down at me and watching.
Knowing I still wish I could find a dog.
