No One Can Say

Stuffed full of spinach salad and cookie-sized fried oysters, I rest my left elbow on the console, leaning toward my grandmother, listening to her talk, watching the pine trees buzz past and her gray-blond wisps floating in the blast of air conditioning.
      "And I just don't think anyone really knows, Elizabeth.  No one can say.  I think from up there we look like a bunch of fools throwing around opinions as truths."  She shrugs.
      I yawn, sleepy from lunch and the afternoon sun.  I like that my grandmother talks a lot.  I like sitting there, being quiet, nodding.
      "But I have this bird, a little brown thrasher, who comes every morning when I feed the squirrels.  He only takes one, through.  One peanut every morning.  And would you believe he waits for me at the back door?  If anyone could see that, and believe it, Elizabeth, if anyone saw him wait for me every morning for that one peanut, who wouldn't believe in God?"  
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