On Sunday mornings, Cigarette Mary would go to St. Helen’s church. Her tennis shoes would squeak along the tile floor as she made her way to the front pew. She would wear a babushka of blue and red roses and rosary would dangle from her hand. She would never ask for cigarettes on Sundays, it was her day of rest. When kneeling, her gaze would rest upon the 20-foot Jesus nailed to the cross. Her eyes would outline his outstretched arms and then down to his nailed feet. During the sermon she would glide her raw fingers against the polished wood of the pew while her chin rested upon her chest.
On one Sunday, a mother and her teenage daughter who sat behind Cigarette, playfully held their noses and smiled at each other because of her odor.
“Her mother used to take care of her,” whispered the lady to her daughter, “She used to wash and feed her too. Since her mother died, she smells awful, doesn’t she?”
The daughter giggled with agreement into her folded hands.
When the service would finish, Cigarette Mary would stay behind while the others made a quick exit. She would snuggle herself into the corner of the pew and watch the flickering flame of the vigil candle at the altar. In the empty church, she would clasp her hands in prayer. In the empty church, she would yawn a quiet sigh.
Besides cigarettes and spare change, what does a Cigarette Mary pray for?
© Copyright Wawzenek 2013