The rosary hung from the left corner of the speckled mirror on the old dresser in front of his bed. The Blessed Virgin of Guadalupe smiled at him from within the small silver casing that she occupied at the crossroads of the beaded strands. He had bought the rosary in the little church gift shop that stood adjacent to the old San Felipe de Neri Church in Albuquerque on the first day of that week in June when he could not but truly feel the presence of God at every turn. He had chosen this rosary because it was prettier than the others and because the crucifix hanging from the end was made of metal instead of wood. The kind man behind the counter had asked him twice if he was sure that this was the one that he wanted. He remembered feeling a bit awkward at that moment as if he was doing something wrong, scared that some pious member of the diocese would cry out from across the shop, "Stop him, he is not a Catholic." He had quickly said yes to the man before any questions of his religious pedigree were raised. He was still unsure whether or not he was breaking some church rule of which he was unaware. He was concerned that there might be some sort of confrontation.
Hanging from the other corner of the mirror was a simple hand-carved cross on a plain thin string that he had bought at the old mission church in Taos during that same week. He remembered arguing with her that day because she had moved the orange and white temporary barricade at the gate of the church so that it would not be in the way of the picture that she wanted to take. He thought that it was highly inappropriate for her to just make up her own rules like that and risk getting them in trouble. Couldn't she see the dozens of church parishioners all around them gathered for the annual renovation of the structure? While he had narrowly escaped trouble in the gift shop in Albuquerque, he was certain that her brazen disregard for the rules would land them in serious hot water this time. Fortunately there had been no confrontation.
Above the mirror was the simple painting of an aged man deep in prayer before his meal of bread and soup. The picture had hung in a place of prominence in his grandparents' home for decades before their decline and had always reminded him of them and of their pure and trusting approach to life. Nowadays he saw the praying man as a hero, someone that he wanted so badly to be like. He was driven by the idea of living the more honest life of the man and of his grandparents, a life where he was truly thankful for all that was given to him, a humbled life where he had no doubt that he was the created not the creator, a life where he honestly trusted God the way he had in New Mexico. Then he began to feel a bit sick. A little voice from somewhere deep inside of him exaggerated what he knew to be true, that he was at his core a self-centered, angry, and weak person, regardless of how hard he tried not to be.
His head dropped just enough to see the reflection of himself in the mirror. The peace that he had unknowingly felt just moments before was gone, replaced in an instant by a feeling of disgust and anger that arose from some dark and old place deep within him. His heart sank momentarily, then he sighed and saw the smile return again to his face. "Seems like this road used to be wider." he thought to himself as he turned off the light beside the bed.
