This is my Jesus roof. I stood for a long time to get this shot, knees bent and head tipped back, waiting for the clouds to transform the stained glass. They could not have been more obliging, magicking a puff of white mist from Jesus’s brow and spinning a trail from his right forefinger.

I must have looked awkward – desperate, even – because one of the workers tending a nearby tomb came and offered to open the door momentarily to give me an unobstructed view. So helpful of him, but I had to explain that without the door, there is no reflection. The clear glass is an essential element of my Recoleta Cemetery alchemy.