Just. Rita of Cascia and Mary of Magdala. You want to join a convent named after the disciple of disciples, no other will do. You get refused two times, but when your neighbors ask you why you’re forlorn, you still say it was your home they locked you out of. You make it in, aided by your patron saints. She wasn’t among them, but maybe that’s only because she was already waiting for you inside. You celebrate her feast day every year for forty years, until your death. Maybe you even celebrate her feast day whenever the 22nd rolls around each month, unaware that every May you’re celebrating your feast day as well. You would feel envious of her, for never having been tied down to a man she didn’t want, a man other than your Lord, but only if you were a little less saintly, a little less marked for Heaven, but you are what you are (and you are just like her) so you can only feel bone deep admiration. It’s good that you don’t mind, because in the end, the centuries will write you both to be just wives — folklore cares very little about the truth; people adore a love story, and the one she had with Him was too visceral to comprehend, so they reduced it to romance. They held your story as a romance, too, when it was a trial, a fight for change, a proof of patience (You're not sure what 'romance' is supposed to mean anymore). Her face in your casket, the original one, the one that was painted when only the people who knew you were aware that you were a saint; the only other person in it is the One that binds you two together. Her convent will become yours. The entire city will be known for you, and few will remember it was the convent of Mary Magdalene to begin with. I think you still feel guilty for it. I think she’s thrilled for you. I think God remembers, always, that it was the women by the Cross.
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