Eight
MY PHONE CATCHES ME in mid-yawn.
True to my word, I stayed at Helen’s apartment Tuesday night.
And Wednesday night.
And Thursday night.
Each night, I sat by the hospital bed in her apartment, holding her hand. I read to her from the Psalms, King David’s hymns of praise to his God, until she fell asleep.
“I want Psalms at our wedding,” she said, dreamily.
“There will be,” I pointed out. “We recite a Psalm at every Mass.”
“Mass,” she said with a smile. “I miss going to Mass. I miss seeing you up there at the altar. I miss seeing Him.”
“I miss seeing you. But I’m more than happy to bring Him to you.”
“And you don’t know how much that means to me, especially with everything else you have on your mind,” she yawned. After a few more minutes, she dropped off.
After she fell aslee
