Portia turned the corner and walked straight into the gloom of the hallway. It was a sadness that could not be explained, she thought. There were no words for it. She was spent, crumpled inside like an empty shopping bag.

Out on the lawn Portia prayed to the clouds: that I may be willing for the pain, Lord. White loons had gathered on old stumps of the dark lake across the way. Nine loons, ten? It was hard to tell which were loons and which were reflections. That I may be patient.

With heaven so distant life loomed big. Things closed in, pressed the strength out of her, demanded more than she had to give. That I may see you only.

As the years moved on there were those times when everything seemed to stand for a minute and wait; times etched in her memory; times when she seemed to see the past, present, and future all as one. Those moments of stillness and holiness, peace inside of pain, a small circle of hope shining out of the ugliness and exhaustion.

It was so long.

The purple sky closed down around the shadows and the heart of Portia. Come and take me away, she pleaded.

The loons flapped silently over the water and into the rim of darkness.