It’s Easter morning. A woman sits alone in a Laundromat as her clothes, dark and light, whirl in the washer. She’s had words with her husband, and as she mentally rehearses that wretched quarrel, the flying clothes seem like angel wings — some dark, some white.
Once, the bells of Easter would have found her celebrating the hope of the Resurrection, her failings confessed and forgiven, her conscience clean. But she has left the Church. Her conscience still accuses her, but she no longer receives absolution. The evil and good angels of her nature swirl about, but her sense of guilt does not wash away.
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