Perception

I notice her, from the piano,

kneeling, head bowed, eyes closed,

fingers interlaced with beads,

lips forming the repetitive prayers of the Rosary.

She mouths the last ‘Amen’ after

the last prayer after

the last ‘Glory Be to God’ after

the last decade of the

last Sorrowful Mystery

of this Rosary before mass.

During my pan of the congregation

as I announce a run-through of new music,

her eyes lazer mine.

Her head shakes from side to side, and

her mouth contorts into a No!

I hesitate in my introduction,

smile to myself so I won’t blanch.

I feel taisered.

Five decades, twenty minutes,

erased

in one primal gesture.

Wait—a companion has emerged beside her,

engaged in a quite different conversation,

surely.

Not about me at all, then.

That must be it.