At eight I pulled into my gravel drive, shut off the Buick and pushed the tax printouts deep into the glove box where I wouldn’t have to look at them again.

Sunday morning arrived with bright sunlight pouring through the stained glass windows of the sanctuary.

I came through the double wooden doors at five to ten and hung my cardigan on the coat tree in the vestibule.

I sat in my usual pew on the left side, four rows from the back, exactly where Mama and I had sat together every Sunday since 1984.

The organist played a gentle prelude while the usher handed out the paper bulletins down the aisle.