His chewed-up lips. His hands like spades under loose sleeves. How he allows what happens each day. Permits sun to bake his pink, freckled brow. Allows Frère Martin to nudge him at Mass, eyelids shut tight as freshwater clams. How long this monk kneels. His slow gait, his impossible pace, the way he places his fork on the plate. Carefully lifts his light voice in high praise, stills his lips when in prayer. It is not so much that Frère Gabriel talks to God; every monk does. But that God talks to him.