Bead by Bead

For reasons I couldn’t explain, I wanted Granny’s rosary.

By: Caroline Pignat

I admit, I’m a sucker for nostalgia. And though my busy days seem to have me forgetting much more than I remember, there are indelible memories of my times in Ireland — particularly childhood days at Granny’s.

They’re separate moments really, like beads strung together in my mind: glimpses of us walking down the hill to the corner store for milk; the smell of wood fires; the way she could at any moment, like a magician, pull a tissue from her sleeve or make a five pound note disappear into my small fist before mom saw it. I remember swinging on her garden gate, riding Jim the sway-backed donkey, running with her dogs, nuzzling the kittens that lived in the tin-roofed shed, and avoiding that cantankerous old hen that refused to die or lay eggs anymore. I see a round loaf cooling in a linen towel on her counter; the particular fork, knife, and mug we always set on Grampa’s placemat; the candles we lit in flickering red cups after Mass; and I remember Granny praying. Morning.…

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