Tiny little churches everywhere

Today is Sunday again, a week from last Sunday. So gray and it rains a couple of times but only a few drops each. Today I ate aspirin and coffee and untouched the newspaper. I only get the Times on Sunday, and Sunday doesn't really last long enough, not ever. We had popcorn and water while we sat mesmerized by the sound and beauty of Atonement. We drove to Portsmouth to see Delisa and Jesse's house which I didn't even recognize because it's painted blue with blue trim and there is a new driveway and a fancy fence. There was coffee and talk about reconstruction, cribs, and bookshelves low to the ground. Mom didn't bring her cigarettes along so as to smoke less. "There's a little bit of heat behind my eyes," she said. I gave her one of my smokes and proclaimed I will not smoke at all when I turn 30, I will not. Later, the grocery store. I devise a mexican-ish dinner in my head and we follow suit. Chips dusted with cayenne pepper, a lime, some chuck steak, and garlic. My brother Jacob appears behind us with his own cart. He has on a leather jacket and white ear buds and wants me to listen to Alicia Keys' new song. There are jokes, there is always loud laughter with him, and my mother wants to know if he's following us around town. He is infectious, infectious. A pot of water boils for rice and the steak cries and cries with delight at the pepper and fresh lime. We whisper the word Grace and tacos commence. I love my mother so. It grounds me and yet it fills me with unearthly pleasure. To see her face. To see her face.