Loud Lily #8
When David was two years old he was inconsolable. His mother tried every trick recommended by her friends: pacifiers, whiskey under his gums, bathing him at night, redecorating his room, bathing him at morning, and facing his bed toward the rising sun, which was not a real suggestion but a tip for insomniacs from a New Age book she browsed in the library.
When she ran out of real suggestions, Irma eventually began creating random unusual circumstances to see if she could stumble on a cure for his constant crying. She wore tin foil hats, or talked to him in pig latin, or didn’t talk at all, or put his clothes on backwards. One day she only let him see the color green. The next day blue, and so forth. Her friends began to say that she had gone crazy. They would lament her sanity at the hands of her troublesome child over tea before sharing the latest gossip of her “solutions” over cookies.
After consulting a doctor for the third time in as many months, Irma was driving her son home when she passed the large blue and white cathedral being built a mile from their neighborhood. This was how she found David’s cure.
The next day, Irma dug her grandmother’s rosary out of her jewelry box and stuffed it into her purse. The rosary, which was old enough to qualify as an heirloom, was Irma’s only connection to a deep religious past of her family. Irma had been raised Catholic, but only in the vein of social obligation and insincerity. She knew the prayers of the rosary and had memorized several verses of the Bible, but had never felt a spiritual need that compelled her to take them seriously. When she told her parents that she wished to quit her Catholic teachings, they shrugged. Now, several years later, she hoped that some of that knowledge would come in handy.
Irma walked the mile to the cathedral-in-construction, carrying David the entire time. In order to produce varying sets of circumstances she would alternate carrying her son and using a stroller in accordance with even and odd days. That day had been odd.
When they arrived at the building there were no workers on site, so Irma slipped under some plastic and rope to be underneath the main dome of the building, which she accurately predicted would later become the sanctuary. Setting her son on a pile of cinderblocks, Irma fished the rosary out from her purse.
The second the beads came into view, David fell silent. It took Irma about a minute to realize what had happened. Over the months she had been so accustomed to his crying that instead of noticing that he had stopped making noise, the first thing she noticed was how loud everything else was. The birds outside were screaming so shrilly that she instinctively felt that the cathedral had been built in order to magnify sound. When she turned around, however, and saw that her son’s mouth was barely open, she understood.
Although she had been unable to immediately comprehend the new sensations to her ears, Irma was able to deduce the source of the cure rather quickly. There was nothing extraordinarily special about the rosary, other than its age. The fifty beads were made of crushed flowers set in glass and it had, according to her grandmother, become a sacramental after a priest blessed it over a hundred years ago. Irma, relieved that she had found peace at last, began to hand the beads to her son, when she stopped. The thought occurred to her that she was manipulating holy traditions for personal gain. In order that God would not be upset at her and repeal his gift, Irma got down on her knees and prayed the rosary. She would, in fact, return and perform the same ritual each day for the next month, feeling that thirty days recognition was more than fair.
When she was finished, Irma stood, brushed the dust and dirt off of her dress, and pushed the beads into her son’s hands. Her friends would later call her incompetent for allowing David to be so near to something that was so small and bright that he would most certainly choke on it, but no such accident ever took place. The rosary was placed on a mobile above his bed and David resorted to crying in the night only when he was hungry or needed a changing.
The rosary became a large part of David’s childhood. It inspired many firsts. The rosary had been held out to him at a distance when his father was disappointed in his son’s early development, inspiring his first steps. It had quieted him aboard an airplane to California to visit relatives during his first flight. It was even tied to the handlebars during his first bicycle ride for luck, and when he suffered only minor scratches after his numerous falls his mother explained that the rosary had protected him from any serious injuries. When he was hospitalized for a month when he was five, Irma placed it around his neck so that the cross lay on his heart and explicitly instructed the nurse caring for him that it was to remain that way.
For five years David cherished the prayer beads. Not understanding their significance, he began to believe that they were magical. He purposefully avoided asking about their origins because he was so satisfied with his own explanation. When he started school he kept them in his backpack only to pull them out and place them around a bedpost every evening. For five years he considered himself blessed. This would, of course, not last forever. And when David was seven, something terrible happened.
When she ran out of real suggestions, Irma eventually began creating random unusual circumstances to see if she could stumble on a cure for his constant crying. She wore tin foil hats, or talked to him in pig latin, or didn’t talk at all, or put his clothes on backwards. One day she only let him see the color green. The next day blue, and so forth. Her friends began to say that she had gone crazy. They would lament her sanity at the hands of her troublesome child over tea before sharing the latest gossip of her “solutions” over cookies.
After consulting a doctor for the third time in as many months, Irma was driving her son home when she passed the large blue and white cathedral being built a mile from their neighborhood. This was how she found David’s cure.
The next day, Irma dug her grandmother’s rosary out of her jewelry box and stuffed it into her purse. The rosary, which was old enough to qualify as an heirloom, was Irma’s only connection to a deep religious past of her family. Irma had been raised Catholic, but only in the vein of social obligation and insincerity. She knew the prayers of the rosary and had memorized several verses of the Bible, but had never felt a spiritual need that compelled her to take them seriously. When she told her parents that she wished to quit her Catholic teachings, they shrugged. Now, several years later, she hoped that some of that knowledge would come in handy.
Irma walked the mile to the cathedral-in-construction, carrying David the entire time. In order to produce varying sets of circumstances she would alternate carrying her son and using a stroller in accordance with even and odd days. That day had been odd.
When they arrived at the building there were no workers on site, so Irma slipped under some plastic and rope to be underneath the main dome of the building, which she accurately predicted would later become the sanctuary. Setting her son on a pile of cinderblocks, Irma fished the rosary out from her purse.
The second the beads came into view, David fell silent. It took Irma about a minute to realize what had happened. Over the months she had been so accustomed to his crying that instead of noticing that he had stopped making noise, the first thing she noticed was how loud everything else was. The birds outside were screaming so shrilly that she instinctively felt that the cathedral had been built in order to magnify sound. When she turned around, however, and saw that her son’s mouth was barely open, she understood.
Although she had been unable to immediately comprehend the new sensations to her ears, Irma was able to deduce the source of the cure rather quickly. There was nothing extraordinarily special about the rosary, other than its age. The fifty beads were made of crushed flowers set in glass and it had, according to her grandmother, become a sacramental after a priest blessed it over a hundred years ago. Irma, relieved that she had found peace at last, began to hand the beads to her son, when she stopped. The thought occurred to her that she was manipulating holy traditions for personal gain. In order that God would not be upset at her and repeal his gift, Irma got down on her knees and prayed the rosary. She would, in fact, return and perform the same ritual each day for the next month, feeling that thirty days recognition was more than fair.
When she was finished, Irma stood, brushed the dust and dirt off of her dress, and pushed the beads into her son’s hands. Her friends would later call her incompetent for allowing David to be so near to something that was so small and bright that he would most certainly choke on it, but no such accident ever took place. The rosary was placed on a mobile above his bed and David resorted to crying in the night only when he was hungry or needed a changing.
The rosary became a large part of David’s childhood. It inspired many firsts. The rosary had been held out to him at a distance when his father was disappointed in his son’s early development, inspiring his first steps. It had quieted him aboard an airplane to California to visit relatives during his first flight. It was even tied to the handlebars during his first bicycle ride for luck, and when he suffered only minor scratches after his numerous falls his mother explained that the rosary had protected him from any serious injuries. When he was hospitalized for a month when he was five, Irma placed it around his neck so that the cross lay on his heart and explicitly instructed the nurse caring for him that it was to remain that way.
For five years David cherished the prayer beads. Not understanding their significance, he began to believe that they were magical. He purposefully avoided asking about their origins because he was so satisfied with his own explanation. When he started school he kept them in his backpack only to pull them out and place them around a bedpost every evening. For five years he considered himself blessed. This would, of course, not last forever. And when David was seven, something terrible happened.
posted by Loud Lily at 10:50 AM
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