the threads in her head

She scatters her rose petals casually over the table.

There is, imperfection. So, she painstakingly shifts the position of some petals. Takes some up and let them fall again. Turn some over. Spread some out with her hands. She wants the backdrop to be perfect.

She places a glass on the table. A baby bloom rose like a newborn babe gently rests in its self-contained glass, a broad variegated green leaf wrapped round it, brought up, curled up, seemingly specially created just to create a safe little arbour for its fair young charge. Soft whispery moss surrounds the rose, gentle strands of green hair forming so soft a bed.

Nestled deeper into the various petals and moss strewn around lies a rosary - the carved figure of Christ crucified on a cross, arms stretched out, head bowed down, acted as a pendant. A small pendant. It is on a string of small wooden beads, with string coiled round occasionally. Two and a half rounds around my thin wrist, less if it was on a bigger wrist.

Usually unremarkable unless they're made from some notable material perhaps. But here she was, an Anglican, with a glass cup that contains a rosary, placed prettily among other stuff.

A rosary given by a little boy with charmingly beautiful eyes and blonde golden hair, among the seats of one of the tallest cathedrals, a beautiful Gothic church with soaring ceilings, a boy who may or may not have been a a little pickpocket more than anything else really, a boy who, who..

Who she would want to see in heaven.

In the after-life.