There are twelve years in a primary school, thirteen hearts in a deck of cards. I played with both. I never saw my father pray, only saw him cry once at his sister’s funeral. Jean went in her garage, shut all the doors, started the car. I often wonder if she prayed before the gas ran out: give me back my childhood, take my hand, squeeze it hard Father watched me climb stairs, learn an eclipse is the moon crossing in front of the sun. He once told me there would be times no church bells would ring, no boy would swing. I was thirteen and I still wonder what happened. Did she have some sort of opening, a breach of sorts? There were hearts her hands couldn’t reach, times that went beyond her own.