Yes, I still have that (second) crucifix. No, I haven’t made a rosary from it. Yes, it’s still pretty damn heavy on me that I should make one, and that it will be mine to keep. No, I still have no fucking idea why I should, and what materials should it be made from.
And I’ve been coming to grips that what my Christian churches taught me was the Christian god may not be the god of Christ. (Mindfucks. Mindfucks everywhere.)
But my engines don’t run on faith.
I’ve been burned by too many empty promises. Too many promises of freedom ended with a tighter leash around my neck.
I keep demanding answers, and the only answer I can hear is “Wait”.
So, I’m waiting. And drawing boundaries. (Don’t look at me like that. Y’all know I’m mercenary as fuck.) If this rosary was for a public covering, to give me the appearance of “fitting in” because the alternative is to place my life or my daughter’s life at risk, I’d be making so many rosaries, the local folk would be sick of me handing them out. “I saw you bought a new coat, this color would go great with it!” That’s not a problem for me. That’s surviving in a hostile place I can’t escape.
But this isn’t for that. This rosary is for me, and for those things I do.
Why?
And what will be the price of it?
I don’t mean the findings and the beads and the bruises in my palm because I need a bone-breaking grip to keep the bugger from flying off when I try to make a hook from a nickel pin that decided at that moment of its existence to be more resilient than titanium.
Why should I make and keep an item that is the symbol of so much god damn pain for much of my life? I am an Apostate. I am a walking Blasphemy. I have denied Christ, struggled with his angels, walked away from the presentation of [God the Father]. Twice. I conjure spirits. I call on the dead. I have made offerings to “foreign gods”. Et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera. ~hand flourish~
Why now?
Why a rosary?
I wasn’t even Catholic! My whippings were all Baptist flavored.
I feel like I’m missing something in plain sight and the pains of my past keep obscuring my vision.