The adoration chapel is a funny place for me to end up on my insomniac jaunts, considering the Church stopped being a regular part of my life a long time ago. But sitting in the chapel feels familiar, like returning to an old haunt.
I once worked with a guy who claimed to be a male witch. A warlock. His name was Stephen. You never called him Steve. This is at Staples, back in my college days. Stephen staffs the copy center and the computer aisle. Those are his domains, and he rules them as if he’s the wise man on the mountaintop, imparting wisdom to customers asking questions about toner cartridges and paper weight.
I know it sounds like the start of a racist joke, one of those cringe-inducing tales that begins with an Irishman, a Jew and a black guy walking into a bar. But that’s how it happens, minus the Jew, the Irishman and a stupid punch line.
As we inch closer to the due date, I try to wrap my mind around this baby situation. It’s just the two of us for now, and while our lives are on the verge of big changes, Hattie feels at peace.