My little hands made like the ceramic angels, little houses of prayer, fingertips touching. My eyes closed, asking, as if prayers were wishes. I knew that God was up and stars were up and one wished on stars. My father’s finger traced the belt and arrow of Orion, the cup of the Big Dipper: Is God in those pinpricks of light? Are those God’s eyes? Can God see me? I press my hands together, close my eyes, and try to quiet my mind. Or is God inside?