A new card appeared, sliding on top of the others. Someone was dealing from the half-deck she had so carefully put aside. That brief blur, was it God's hand?
The Queen of Clubs. Her mother washes dishes in a tiny black dress, towering over Sarah in a frail, spangled shift that seems overwhelmed by her, as though the slightest flex of her thigh would split it open. Her powerful legs must hold themselves up, because those high heels couldn't do it. They must be holding the dress together as well, and as she shifts from one foot to another, she is pumping the blood through Sarah's veins, circulating the air through its cycles of weather, crushing the past, creating new shores, cutting rivers through mountain ranges.
"When else am I going to wear it?"