Detour

Does God care more about the piss-ant town in the desert or the city, where the full-on press of people touch shoulders while their eyes bore into the sidewalk?

Fran wondered. Her husband's mind was closed to her. If she had to say whose mind she knew better, Oliver's or God's, she would say God's. She couldn't imagine Him up in the sky inhabiting every mind at once, shifting from Japan to China to Utah, and then deciding after weighing all the options to settle His gaze on her.

She sat on a cliff above the town, shoes off, toes in the grit and pebbles. It was noisy, but it wasn't. She thought she heard the highway twenty miles north, maybe a jake brake every once in a while. Western Kingbirds rushed the sun and lingered in the shade.

She smelled sage and sneezed.

If she were a betting woman, she'd put money on Him checking in on New York City, or at least somewhere on the East coast. She pondered the things all women ponder when they have a free moment:

apples
bananas
spaghetti (if she were back in New York the Italian deli would have the fresh pasta and marinara and she'd pick up some bread to go along with it)
but canned is fine, just fine
iron that shirt (and why Oliver started wearing plaid is beyond her)
organize the cupboard above the stove
send her daughter a birthday card (thirty two years already?)
psyche herself up for time with Oliver on the sofa tonight (she'd try not to be obvious about the fact that she'd rather be in the den reading a book)
butter
lemon
coffee cake
provolone
rye bread
batteries.

She traced a message for God in the sand, in case He happened to look there, then slipped her shoes on and walked to the grocery store.