8:18
It’s 8:18 on the back roads of Pennsylvania and I’m hunting for a tower.
I am finding it hard to keep up with the young, black pastor’s flow of words.
The clouds above us are twisted, as if the sun has wrestled them to break through.
The long, garden shrouds are the perfect ending my glum rule-of-three walk.
Everyone in the concert hall, including the orchestra, waits for my daughter to play a single note.