Puller pushed off the hood and started to head down the sidewalk.

 

He could have gone in one of two directions, but he had chosen the way that made

the most sense to him.

 

Sunday best.

 

As he walked along he could not stop himself from imagining his mother making

this same journey that night. His footsteps were following that same trek. His

steps were hitting where hers had hit on this very same concrete. He visualized

her all dressed up, her purse perhaps clutched at her side. Her gaze directly in

front of her. Some purpose in mind.

 

Some destination.

 

When he reached St. Mary’s Church, Puller stopped.

 

It looked the same as when he’d been a boy here. The trees around it were larger

and fuller, but the church itself had remained frozen in time.

 

It was a beautiful little church. It would have made a great postcard picture,

he suddenly thought.

 

Come here and worship God. It will get you in the spirit.