She looks down at it, rubbing the cross between her fingers, the silver over the wood. “You can have it,” I say. She can remember me, then. “Are you mad I’m here?” she asks all of a sudden. Do I seem mad? When I don’t answer, she looks up at me. I shake my head. “Can I come back again, then?” she presses hopefully. And I nod. “Let’s do this,” she says, taking off the rosary and then unclipping the silver jeweled barrette from her hair. She takes both and sets them up on the little alcove under the upper bowl, hiding them in the niche there. “Since it’s our secret hiding place,” she tells me
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