Visit to a Franciscan Monastery

Visit to a Franciscan Monastery I sift through medals in the gift shop's plastic tub, wondering ifthe saints smile on my curiosity or frown as my hand moves over their faces, over the grooves and ridges ofwords raised like braille: "Pray for us." A friar smiles from his register at a girl expressing her wants too loudly. The sharp crack of her mother's palm across her upturned cheek resonates through rosaries and statuettes, through ten carat crosses and nightlights ofJesus. When the sound dies, the slap repeats itself in my memory and I'm amazed at how it changes the shape ofthe faces around it: the girl's long face shortens at the chin, the friar's round one squares at the brow, my own widens at the jaw into my mother's whispering in Yiddish, 'Tour father's Jesus won't save us." Yet I move toward the still-raised palm, wanting the press ofmetal between my fingers, wanting the prayer card the friar offers the girl from his outstretched hand. Linda Ramey 31 ...