Requisite Psychic Mirrors

I miss mountains and wonder could we live that way again. You learn something from the rain, the afternoon darkening, cold coming on, too wet to build a fire. How sometimes you settle in. Mundane sagacity. She invites me to a certain type of prayer and I pass, having failed to polish the requisite psychic mirrors earlier. Cars you can't afford going up and down this busy road in Boston at midnight, where you cannot say how you arrived nor will you ever leave. Disclosures I'd rather not make anymore. These trespasses we hold against ourselves, on orders from supposedly on high. And yet there is so much I'd rather die than face. She insisted on bringing to light what longed to be brought to the light, thus necessitating the past hundred and fifty centuries or so. "Don't worry," Thérèse said, "all my suffering is for Jesus," and at the end she wasn't saying it because it was true - she knew at that juncture it was a lie - but because she knew her sisters weren't ready yet to hear what was true - that courage.