I'm standing at the kitchen window when I see something moving beyond the orchard fence. At first I think it's one of Dad's cows, maybe a calf, and then I remember that there are no longer any cows here. Then a deer lifts her head, sniffing the air, and then it springs over the fence into the orchard. I call Mom to the window to watch with me, and a big fawn follows its mother. There's no fruit this year, Mom says. So we haven't seen many deer. The doe stops grazing and looks up, into the kitchen window. Does she see only her reflection, or does she see our faces? She stands a long time and we stand, too. At church this morning, Mom's pastor quoted Paul, that we see through a glass darkly and we can't know what heaven is like. But in these moments, when the last of the day's sun falls over the orchard like beaten gold, when the trees are green, like jasper, under an amethyst sky, I think I know where I am.