I stand at the kitchen sink washing the one thing I took from home after you died: The Madonna and Child statue I meditated on—kneeling before you—being beaten, traumatized, loving you, year after year. I wash it gently, remembering the time you unwittingly soaked a statue of St. Joseph carved out of salt in a sink of warm water. You did not realize it would dissolve, desert you like your man-made religion. Only to return later, pushing your hands through the milky-white water, confused, almost frantic, as you thrashed about in search of what you had laid there.
