It’s a sound.  A metal sound.  When you’re 10, love sounds like metal.

You’re lying in bed, upstairs in the old farmhouse.  The room is covered in wallpaper probably from the 60s, and you are buried under layers and layers of blankets.

Grandma is always worried about the cold, so she piles you high with covers at night, making sure the nightlight is on.  She prays with you, and even at 80, she still ends her prayers with ‘in Jesus’ precious name’, and so now often, you do, too.

I’m so happy to be over at Cara’s today telling a de(tale).  Come read the rest!