On the car ride we practice our hagiography. Saint Anthony, patron of lost things, please let my plastic panther with the eyes that glow in the dark be hiding under the seat and not left at our house, my brother says. His sock feet on the passenger headrest dance and dance.
It’s not going to be our house anymore, Mom tells him.
Are we going to visit?
She shakes her head tightly and holds the steering wheel as if we are driving off the planet. Saint Christopher, my mother says. You god of one-way streets and long yellow lights, you. Please let us find a good parking spot when we get there, right outside the new place.
Beside her I peel an orange in one thin, unending spiral. Philip of Rome, patron saint of comedy, please let me find the humor in this someday, I think. Outside the car there is nothing at all that will save us.
Ruth Weissmann is a former crime scene reporter living in Madison, Wisconsin. She is currently an MFA candidate at The New School. Find her on Twitter @_ruthbetold
image: Lindsay Hargrave