My Lost Saints

You asked me,
"Do you pray?"
I said,
"What do you think?"
And you replied,
"I don't think you do."
I laughed,
"Incredulous."

Thinking about our conversation, last night, I pondered. I thought how it may be true what you said. How I do not pray. Anymore at least. I do whisper every night in my heart to whoever might listen. Whoever. Yes, I erased the names of my saints. Because that's what you do when you are hurt and the people you want to hear you are deaf. You un-name them. Because maybe they will get the point. Hopefully. Because of all the ironies in life, of all the names I have been called, the only retaliation I can throw back is to take away the names of my saints. It's like blaming the universe for the sin of one person. Unfair, I know. It always is.

But guess what? I decided last night. I want to believe again. In something. Anything. To just hold one truth or two, any truth in my hand, to hold it against my heart like holding an oxygen mask to my deprived lungs, like my life depended on it. To retrieve the names of my lost saints and feel the life running through my veins.

"Can I ask you
to do one thing?",
You asked.
"What is it?"
And you told me.
I smiled, smirked
actually.
"Absurd. What you're
asking me."
"Why absurd?"
"Because you need
not ask me. Even if
I have lost my faith
with all my lost saints,
I already
prayed for you."




Photo Credit: Jon Loreche