The other day, Ramona and I talked about what her first confession will be like.
"I picture our souls," she said, "like bright, white balls. Sort of like that light up there," she said, pointing to the globe on the kitchen ceiling. "Only smaller, and without the bugs."
I nodded (and possibly bit my lip to stifle laughter at such a solemn moment, and made a mental note to clean the globe.)
"And, the ball is in here," she continued, putting a hand on her chest, "but I picture sins like an old blanket that covers up the bright light and keeps it from being shiny."
Oh, how I love that girl.