In the summer of 1972 I left church too early, and my mother rolled over in her grave for the first time. At ten years old I was able to maintain the current position of my mother in my head, so as to know whether she lay on her stomach or back. I secretly preferred her on her stomach. My imagination was too vivid. I did not like to envision my mother staring up at me, face drawn pale, skin rustling aimlessly on her skeletal remains.
Ignorance is bliss, with the meaning of words as with the true nature of events.
I was sitting at the curb ten minutes before the church bells rang signaling the end of morning mass when my father pulled up in our white Ford Courier pickup truck. He hadn't been to church himself in months. Said, the Lord wasn't ready to take him back. My father's voice thundered. You're wearing me out boy.