In the quiet stillness, the man sees his great-grandmother methodically thumbing the rosary. Thumb and forefinger—like sorting dead stones from dried black beans. The man doesn’t understand time that moves like a train. He was raised by old people; they walk amongst him still. Bright glowing orbs. The living rarely seem so radiant. Sometimes he sits on the front porch and watches the heat lighting dance. He smells molasses and pine. He wishes he had his granddad’s pipe. He wonders about tumors and baby teeth.
