Agnes laid in bed listening to the rain pound on the roof. Through her eyelids, she saw flashes of light that came in from her window. She counted down from ten until she heard the rumble of thunder.
“That’s a four,” she muttered. Agnes missed sitting on the porch with Stanley, her husband of sixty-three years, during storms. They would gently rock back and forth on their swing. “Angels are bowling.”
She swore her husband responded, “God’s takin’ pictures.” She remembered how Stanley sat up straight and smiled at the sky. When the lightning flashed again, he relaxed back into the swing. Agnes would lean her head against his shoulder while he patted her knee and continued to say, “Come on, Agnes. Let God get a picture of us together so, when we die, he knows to bring us back together.” Ag
