When I was little I often wondered where prayers went. I still do.

Do they dance off in a soft wind,  cartwheeling on air until one catches on a leaf or a shoulder or a hillside tree?

What would happen then? Would the tree hold it there? The person brush it off her shoulder? Would a traveler pass by and stop, not knowing why, and carry the prayer with him to a new place?

When I saw this sunny break in the dark sky above a city church the other day, I  pictured the prayers and hopes and petitions of those passing by - like me - jotted down on tiny slips of paper and tossed upward, like handfuls of New Year's confetti.

Please, they said, in inky blue handwritten words. And thank you.

Would they ride the afternoon wind and travel up and up into the sky? 
Caught, perhaps, in a cupped and caring hand?