Every time I used my hand she became an evangelist. God never seemed as close as those nights in my '88 Tempo. She would raise her voice to heaven in general and the Lord in particular. The panicky breaths to the octave jumping keen of passion to the rousing, operatic crescendo. Her hands moving to grasp the light she'd found. Then there would be a quiet moment. like a warm, dry portage between two streams. Then the bright green and purple flashes would come again to the business side of her eyelids and she would resume her praise of The Almighty.

When it was through she would sit in the semi-shade and smile. Then she would reaffirm her faith. She would blow a lungful of smoke and say, "God, I love you."