‘I couldn’t pray for you,’ Paul begins, ‘it would be too wet.’ I watch Paul flick the water off his hands. ‘It would be like slober down your neck.’
Then there is Jesus. He prayed. In a dark night against a tree, a thick tree with deep and aged bark.
‘He prays,’ Paul interrupts, ‘like a monster.’ A monster, what do you mean? How?
‘His words and breath don’t seperate,’ Paul blows a bubble and points to it, ‘like the air in a bubble, the bubble and air are one.’ I watch Paul.
‘A prayer from him, well,’ he moves a little so the bubble can land on the grass,’is like him putting you in the middle of this bubble.’ The bubble rolls in the mixture of green and pink.
‘He puts that sweetness on your cheek as you roll around.’