The fist that held the chain that held her crucifix opened itself out until her fingers were splayed over her heart.
She said, “I’ll never shed this old coat. And that will be my torment.”
Once more her eyes went around the table, touched each of our faces. “But you’ll pray for me, won’t you?” she asked. “You’ll pray for this lost soul?”
We said we would, understanding none of it. Or believing, perhaps, that it was only her great humility, her holiness, that made her say she was unworthy of heaven.
And then, in her familiar way, the grin in her voice gave over to laughter. We saw her fragile shoulders move against her dark veil. We felt her delight in us, which was familiar as well, delight in our presence, our living and breathing selves—a tonic for all sorrow.
She whispered, “God has hidden these things from the wise and prudent, see? He’s revealed them only to the little ones.”