Valid

by Chris Bergeron

It’s 7:40 p.m. I’m falling behind on my rituals. You see, at 7:30 p.m., I usually pay my debt. The tremendous love of a mother isn’t free. It has a price: this dull pain we live with every day from the day she dies to the day we die. Undoubtedly, it’s in order to finally settle this debt that those who are dying whisper “Mom” at the moment they depart for the afterlife or the void. When the emptiness begins to set in, around 7:15 p.m., and becomes unbearable at 7:30 p.m., I recite the Hail Mary over and over, as if I were praying with a rosary. What I mean is: Hail Mom, full of grace. I’m very afraid that there is no Lord, that you’re alone up there or, even worse, that there’s nothing left of you in the vast universe. I, the fruit of your womb, am a bit lost. I’m what remains of our lives. The end of our lineage. Holy Mom, pray for me, if you can, now and at the time of my death, which I hope won’t come too late. I can’t wait to find you and Grandma, who is your Mary as you are mine.