“What are you talking about?” Ferida spits. “One God? For all of us? Have you lost your mind? We’re all different.” She slides another circle of bread onto the table. “Eat. That is God. God is my hands and your womb. In her crusty eyes that can still sew. That rooster outside? He’s God as much as the i***t on the other side of town singing his song. Existence. That’s God. I’ll tell you something, though. People that think they’re doing God’s work? They’re the worst, not the best. There’s another opposite for you. ‘God told me to do this!’ Pah, of course he did, with a nice personal message in your ear. One God? At times like these I wonder if there even is a God.”
“You sound like my mother,” Hripsime says. “Ouf.” She pushes her chair back and stands. Her mouth opens as if she is about to
