Saturday morning, I’m at the local bead shop. It’s like a candy store to me, filled with bins and strings of prismatic glass and crystal beads. I crave color the way some people crave food. I need my fix and fill.

I pick up a looped string of turquoise fire polished crystal beads. Each faceted face reflects a different iridescent hue, reminding me of the shimmering water of my last Caribbean vacation. I must have the entire string. It is my rosary, every bead a memory of past devotion.