She expected, with each gust of wind, every indeterminable crack, the surge of rain, to be swept up off her feet in some divine light, to see the white hands of the angels, of Mother Mary, touch her gently on top of her head. Or perhaps she'd slip into a deep, pleasant sleep, carried off to heaven on the crest of a dream. Or perhaps she might even die, the house caving in around her, buckled under the weight of a collapsing tree, and she would see the face of Christ, the white cheekbone scored in blood like the stained glass windows glowing in the church.

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