We were talking about patron saints the other day. It was yet another imagining day. All of us chose a professor to proclaim as our patron saint. Peyton chose Dr. D for hers. I wondered aloud who mine would be—even though I knew. I wasn’t sure how to say it out loud without having that beat, that quick beat when everyone realized I was talking about someone close to me who had died. That quick beat when everyone tried to figure out how to respond. I didn’t have to say it. “Marianna would have been yours,” Peyton offered. I nodded my head. I knew. Marianna, the patron saint of English majors that cursed too much. The patron saint of decisions that we shook our heads at later and wondered, why? but cherished too much to regret them. The patron saint of trying new things, of saying fuck the consequences and being ourselves. The patron saint of shooting from the hip. I never had to explain myself to her. She always knew. She was my kindred spirit. Now she is my patron saint.