I pray to Saint Jude for the safe return of my mother from the grocery store. She goes once a week for a big shop on Saturday. She doesn't know that I pray for her, but I do. Two months ago, I dreamt that her Volvo was hit by a truck on her way home from the store. She was humming along to Jackson Browne's song "She Must Be Somebody's Baby" on the radio and then Boom! Dead. I woke with a start and a wet spot on my bed. I thought I had peed but it was just sweat. Oh glorious apostle St. Jude, faithful servant and friend of Jesus. God, I hate that song.

I tried to sneak into her bed that night to be next to her, but she wouldn't have it. She doesn't like to be too close. Instead, she likes to clean my ears for me with her finger and tell me that I smell like a dog after playing punch ball in the schoolyard. She doesn't hug or kiss me like other moms, which works just fine for me. I just worry about the dream. The Boom. Pray for me who am so miserable; make use, I implore thee, of that particular privilege accorded thee of bringing visible and speedy help where help is almost despaired of.

My mother works at National Car Rental. A guy named Bobby, who thinks he is an actor, but really is just a guy that works at a car rental place, has come over a couple of times for dinner. We had hamburgers for the first visit and then bacon pizzas the second. He gave me a signed photo of himself. What kind of guy gives a kid a signed photo of himself? Bacon pizzas are my favorite. Mom cuts open a hundred thousand rolls and puts slices of American cheese on each. She cooks up some bacon which always makes my mouth water. She puts the cheese on the rolls and then some marinara sauce from a jar and tops it with the bacon and cooks it in the oven for five minutes. The bread gets crispy and the cheese melts. Sometimes there are little bubbles of burnt cheese on the pan, and when Mom isn't looking I pick them off and eat them.


I ate five in a row and wanted more, but Bobby said I should watch it because I don't want to be the chubby kid that everyone makes fun of so I went to my room. I hated Bobby for saying that. I went to bed and prayed to St. Jude that he wouldn't come over again. I promise thee, O blessed St. Jude, to be every mindful of this great favor, and I will never cease to honor thee as my special and powerful patron. Mom must have sensed that I didn't like him much because the next time he came over he waited in the car for her to get ready. Mom got dressed slowly and I watched from her orange paisley bedspread. Under my breath, I prayed she would be home early but I heard her come in around midnight, which is very late. And to do all in my power to encourage devotion to thee. Amen.

I always sneak in a note of thanks at the end of the prayer. I say thank you to St. Jude for letting me pray to him and for keeping my mom ok. I made that Bobby picture into a dart board in my closet.