I think of my neighbour’s rosary, worn smooth from years of use, and wonder what it felt like for her to inhabit a world where every gesture meant something more. I mimic those gestures sometimes. Not because I believe, but because I want to. It’s a form of envy for a coherence I’ve never known. Her God is a presence; mine is a question. Maybe the ache is part of being alive. Maybe the sacred was never about certainty, but about longing well.