She flinched as she stood, inched her way towards the kitchen and back to her table by the window. All sorts of materials strewed the surface: beads, rings, crosses, strings.
"Come, dear sit with me," she said.
I watched how this eighty-year-old woman laboriously strung the beads together.
"How d’you keep doing what you do, Gran’ma?"
"I feel happy and fulfilled—stringing beads. With each bead, I say a prayer. In the end, I would have prayed the rosary, made one and thanked the Lord."
I shot her a curious look.
She smiled and said, "For eighty years of my life."
"Come, dear sit with me," she said.
I watched how this eighty-year-old woman laboriously strung the beads together.
"How d’you keep doing what you do, Gran’ma?"
"I feel happy and fulfilled—stringing beads. With each bead, I say a prayer. In the end, I would have prayed the rosary, made one and thanked the Lord."
I shot her a curious look.
She smiled and said, "For eighty years of my life."
