On a warm November day I turned my face toward an overcast sky and wondered how my heart had turned black.

A nun in the grocery store waited behind me with a family-size bag of Cheetos, a coupon, and wilted stockings ringing her ankles. Could she see my black heart inside? Would she give me advice? Would I even listen? Does she really care about the rest of us tarnished souls?

For weeks I have wondered about the patter of souls sagging under heavy hope the size of parade floats, dreams of heaven, endless love, and mountains. I was among them, and I cast the smallest shadow.

I don’t want to die to find heaven. I want to press against endless love and melt, and I want looming mountains to yield — a soft loam beneath my feet.

Who am I if the world changes and all the familiar things turn away in bitterness and hurt, and I am alone?