Patsy deliberately times her visit so it doesn't overlap with the nuns' prayer schedule but, as she lights a candle, she can see Sister Mary Cynthia enter the chapel out of the corner of her eye. She quietly walks over to where Patsy is standing in front of the small votive rack in the corner and lights a candle of her own. They stand in silence for a minute.
"Today is the anniversary of my sister dying." Patsy says quietly, hands clasped in front of her.
"Today would be my brother's nineteenth birthday." Sister Mary Cynthia smiles softly at the coincidence. "I don't like the thought of him up there, with only our grandparents for company."
"My sister would take wonderful care of him," Patsy says, "she was so kind. My father used to joke that she should have been called Patience."
"My brother would love that. He had the most beautiful smile, Patsy. I worry that he misses being part of a big, busy family."
"I think my mother rather would have liked a son. She used to dote on us terribly."
Sister Mary Cynthia gently takes her hand and they watch the pair of flames burn brightly. Patsy has never been very good at praying, but feels peace settle inside her as she thinks about their departed families, waiting for them in the next room.