In a Small Church in West Texas.

She wept so bitterly and with such passion in that first hour that her cheeks became raw from whipping away the tears.

The pews where she sat were wooden and old. They had been smoothed down and polished by all of those who had sat in them from years past. They had been perfected and rounded and worn down by those who had sought to bring some fathomable amount of something to that place. Something that might make that crucified Christ that hung above the alter to detach himself from those crimson stained spikes. To make him hop down off of that cross and sit next to them or to say something to them or to hold a hand. But in everything that they had brought to him he still hung there, head down.

As she slowly gained composure and came back to the reality that she was gone, she stood. Her eye shadow running down her chin and her hair clinging like veins of brown to her cheeks. Her eyes slowly rose to meet those of the Christ. She stared at him. She sized him up. She wanted to throw something at him. But she just turned into the aisle and slowly walked through the center of the church and out of the two heavy wooden doors. Outside the air was thick and warm and was filled with evening sun light. She stood there with the sun beating down on her face and allowed, for just a few brief seconds, for the warm air to rush through and over and about her body; taking the chill of the church away like a feather in the wind.

When she opened her eyes the car with her sister in the drivers seat was sitting in the parking lot. There was a dinner to attend. There were people to talk to. There were streets to drive down and tears to cry. There were bills to pay and friends to call and houses to clean.

So getting into the car with her black veil draped over her face they drove away without a niece and without a daughter. They were one to few. They were missing a piece. They were missing her.