Right now, talking to You seems like a chore. It's more of an oughta than a wanna. "Pray for me!," she asks. And I do. I pray to a God she doesn't believe in...on her behalf. It feels heavy, as if I have to have enough belief for the both of us. I suspect she thinks of prayer in the same way that people bury saints upside in their yards to sell houses, or kiss a blarney stone for luck, and blow out birthday candles to make a wish. A superstition. A good luck charm. A magic word. And what does she really want me to pray? That the elderly man will be healed of the cancer that riddles his body? Probably. However, he's lived a full life and he's likely tired of pitting the good cells against the bad ones. Maybe he wants to be done. Should I pray that she gets to say good-bye? Or perhaps that she can grieve openly and well,,, surrounded by loved ones. Or maybe, just maybe, this will be the first time she encounters You. In her grief. In the prayer that didn't ...