She turned to me, but I wasn’t prepared for the bombshell she was about to drop. “You see, I met David the day before I was to be married.”
“When your father moved us here, I thought we had lost David, but he found us. He always found us. I could never run away from his love.”
“I didn’t know David until it was too late,” Mother was saying, though I was only half-listening, uncomprehending, unprepared.
I ran to the sidewalk where Caitlin stood, the balmy breeze blowing her paisley skirt around her knees. It was finished.
I felt about Sundays like the servants of Polly Harrington’s had. I hated them, though instead of a sour stomach, they gave me a migraine.
Every Sunday was St. Patrick’s Day for us until the day Mother decided to give it back to God who had been, as David, waiting patiently for her.
Lancaster County—where we hadn’t been back since the day we’d left our Amish & Mennonite friends, never to hear from them again.
Mother canonized Patrick long ago, even as my sister prayed to him like a Saint. As for me, I had deified David, so I had no use for the dead.
David left us every Saturday evening, not to return till sundown Sunday; those hours were for mourning Patrick, or St. Patrick’s Sabbath Day.
Knowing that Mother had known David before she married my father made me wonder just when it was she fell in love with him.
Mother’s talk of betrothals & marrying my father out of honor seemed archaic & passionless to me.