She and I both wear tattered veils that we desecrated, then repaired, with our own jagged needles, our own greasy fishing line. We call it “good enough.” But He stands behind us, holding out shimmering cobwebs, lacy snow, crowned with gems whose colors we have not yet seen. He is joyful, a groom. She and I both know better than to kick sand or pull hair, yet our wandering feet set granules aloft, our grubby knuckles constrict around our siblings. But He kneels in front of us, holding out a wingspan of invitation, a tear-banishing embrace, longs for us to nestle our noses in His collarbone, His safety. She and I both realize there is more; we are bristling with awareness of the far, encroaching shore we wish we could reach; we give up trying. But He comes to stand beside us, an electric, crackling wire between us, and begins to run, leap-- “Come on, pull! We can bring it nearer!” Tug, rest, tug, rest.