Her mother prayed to the saints. She prayed that they’d keep her children safe. Correction, her older children safe. The younger children still resided under the mother’s watchful eye, so they were ‘safe,’ regardless, but the older children states away could be under any situation and so her mother recited, "Padre nuestro, que estas en el cielo…”

The hums that came out her mouth were in a fast rhythm, known by heart, passed down from generation to generation. Her youngest daughter didn’t see the point in praying to this god that she only heard of from her mother’s words. She’d question her mother so much, that she’d been chastised, to accept it and to let it consume her so she could be closer to the heavens. Whatever that meant.

And so as she knelt next to her mother, a rosary in her hands, she hung her head and cleared her mind. As her mother whispered, “Pray with me,” she formed her mouth into the word, ‘watermelon.’ And that is what she repeated throughout the tiny prayer session for her loved ones, whether god was going to punish her or not was in his hands not hers. For hers were busy feeling the wooden rosary in her tiny fingers, touching every delicate bead, one thought entering her head, To the good, bring good.

To the good, bring good.

To the good, bring good.