I know a girl who spends all day Sunday praying. All day, I repeat. Yes, all day, she says. In meetin all day, we pray. I can’t think of what to say to that. I wonder what she prays about. I blink at her. All day, you meet and you pray. She nods, and I wonder what she has lost to make her pray that way. And in the black without reaching or breathing or knowing I let you go.