My maternal grandparents had married late in life, which was how Mother had ended up the only child of Catholic parents.
It was rare when Mother spoke of my grandparents, but when she did, it was only in general terms—like the omniscient narrator of a story.
Mother pulled back the velvet curtains from our picture window, welcoming the moon-dark that would be chased out by the missionary light.
“You’ll have to forgive me, but it seems strange to be calling someone so young & out of habit a sister,” Mother said to Sister Grahame.
Why did Sister Wiley & Sister Grahame make me feel as if I was committing a sin whenever Elder Roberts even looked at me?
I thought of Elder Roberts & a warm, wonderful feeling enveloped me like a towel fresh out of the dryer. My love for him was clean & good.
“They’re tutti-frutti over Jell-O in Utah. Jell-O has a wholesome image—like my companion here,” Sister Grahame said.
There was a cherubic sweetness about Elder Johnson, just as there was a pious tartness about Elder Roberts thickly veiled with male beauty.
Our family had developed a special bond with the elders—a bond that seemed to transcend a shared religion.
The sister missionaries drove a car, while the elders rode their bicycles. It all seemed so chivalrous somehow.