After Collin’s homily Siobhan kneeled to pray to her babies. Collin had spoken of Ruth and Naomi, their abiding friendship, and the power of love. She’d named the first born Ruth, just before she died back in ’01. How many years ago, was that? Almost twenty. She wondered what that baby would be like today, if she’d lived. Same thing with the other three, Andrew, James, and Mary.
Patrick and Agnes didn’t know. Siobhan would never tell them about their older siblings, the ones who didn’t make it. They didn’t need to bear that weight. She leaned back onto the St. Patrick’s pew and looked at her twelve-year old. He liked school but something went wrong with everything he did. It never seemed to be his fault but his projects always went awry. And little Agnes, her nine-year old, a wilted geranium since Martin died last fall. She’d adored her daddy like no child Siobhan had ever seen.
Collin stood at the altar, ready to begin the sacrament. The good Lord might’ve taken Martin away from them, but at least Siobhan’s brother could be a good role model for her children. He began to read the service of Holy Communion and Siobhan crossed herself, feeling a momentary glimpse of peace.
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