Gold Snowflakes

　　    Gold. She spun gold. My Grandmother. Her faith, from the outside, from my ten year old being, seemed based on what? Not knowing? Not not knowing?

　　    I would shrug my shoulders. It was the sounds she had memorized but did not know the meaning of, a Latin chant that transported her and gave her a certain faith. A certainty based on the experience of sounds she knew, but did not know the meaning of.

　　    Snowflakes, cut from folded paper in a child's hands. I did not know how each cut would fill and unfill this octagon of paper after being cut and upon being unfolded.

　　    I spun gold snowflakes through her prayers.

from All Drinking Aside (Rough Draft, Chapter 85)