She watched Gram recede, wearily. No time for her. No time for that. She turned back to him. Soon he'd be far and unreachable. Long drives on a Sunday for fresh eggs. The swell and swerve of country roads. The way he winked, took his hand off the stick shift, reached over and squeezed her knee. She giggled. Time was boundless.
And now in one strangled moment--Gram praying in a pew, organ music resuming, the sun illuminating The Last Supper and Jesus and his Disciples, a kaleidoscope of colors spinning like the Holy Ghost in a whorl of dust overhead--Cecilia became like him, like stone. She was convinced if she stood there long enough, stared at his hands, she might rise up into the spiraling dust, to look down, to see herself and him, poised, both of them, in the final scene.