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"Heaven has fallen,"
my grandmother says
pointing outside, "see how the clouds are groping on their
bellies like serpents." She crosses herself begs me to stay
inside, "He is surely among us."
She lived most of her life on
the middle of the world where the year divides itself only with
heat, rainfall, and days of celebration. Winter is a word without
season.
To explain the vapor that will
cover this valley for weeks will not calm her; she knows only
that she wakes to half-lightness.
Instead, I tell her that this
is the most catholic season. Earth turns its face toward the
communion sun, eyes closed, tongue out, waiting for the warmth,
the white roundness of blessing.
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