I see her maybe two days a week, climbing up a big hill as she mutters along to the rosary beads in her gnarled fingers. I see her when I’m walking to the train, and she’s walking to church, I presume.

She’s a nun. She’s old and wears the nun doo-rag. She’s unfriendly; seeing as we’re the only fools out there walking in S.U.V.-ville at 8 in the morning, I try to nod hello, but she looks away. She’s hunched over, and, frankly, looks like a witch.

Oh, but the Church Witch is a hardy soul. If she’s coming from the train and heading to the church that I think she’s heading to, she’s walking a good mile–most of it up a huge hill.

And yes, I’m going to hell for dubbing a woman of the cloth “Church Witch.”

But you’re going to hell for reading this.