Her bones griped about their pain as the weathered seats tried to rise to the occasion.

The pews hadn’t had company in years, so they forgot to be welcoming. 

She studied the hands mounted ominously at the tip of her nose.

They, folded neatly, resembled the poise with which her body held its shape.

The hat pin hadn’t been employed since the church closed in 1991.

Sixty was twenty years younger, and now her nearly bald head was a widow.

The cracks in her skin revealed the wisdom that had seeped in over the years.

They foreshadowed the hush that the heavens would whisper when she asked “why?”

After the length of a lifetime, she knew God would not suffer to answer.