The widow at Nain, afterward

It was always summer in those eyes. That's what I missed most in that awful interval before his Word

awakened us both. I was not ready for memories or for ritual grief, so I couldn't stop weeping till

he spoke. The pain would not be expended but kept doubling every moment he slept, for it was

not a rightful sleep, from which he always used to awaken so quickly to get about the day. But it was a

little like that when he finally awoke: A touch and the tide rolled back. A word and he saw the day.