The sign on the gate to the church garden reads, “This garden to be used for prayer and quiet contemplation only.”
“When did they have to put that on?” Katie asks. She sounds mildly disappointed in, well, in everybody: the church, the people that took advantage of the church so they had to put a sign up, the kind of world that makes it so that we have to jealously guard the few refuges of quiet and beauty.
A man carrying a child on his shoulders and pushing another in a carriage passes us just in front of the church, and even though he’s clearly laboring, there’s a sort of determined happiness in the way he tromps to the stop light, pauses, looks both ways, adjusts the child on his shoulders so she’s more secure, and then continues on his way.
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