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Each morning, she goes to mass to taste Christ, his body placed in her cupped hands at eight-thirty if her watch is accurate. The one given her by Papa twenty years ago when she promised she'd never leave him. With Christ in her mouth, she kneels and focuses on the statue of the Infant of Prague, the icon demanded by the Czech members of the parish. The Infant's gown moves, flutters, and ruffles as if an errant breeze has entered Our Lady Of Sorrows and teases the impastoed plaster. She blinks, looks again, and the Infant's eyes close, two tears trailing down the placid face. She feels chosen, blessed, has no doubt about what she witnessed but she cannot share her miracle. She will not allow her ordinary life sensationalized or suffer strangers streaming to her peaceful home. Swallowing, she hugs the vision of the trembling statue to her bony chest and bows her head while she digests Jesus.
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