The next morning I woke up as my father was carrying me into our house. I was covered with enough grass to start my own park. Mom’s flowers were confetti, and there were big gouge marks in the lawn. Dad took me aside and insisted I could rub myself anywhere I damn well pleased, and no stinking ghost--holy or otherwise--would ever make me wear a tutu unless I damn well chose to. Not on his shift! In that moment, I knew that although my dad wasn’t God, he was the closest thing, because I had finally found the only guy on earth who really could tell a kid the score.
Since Dad died, I haven’t had any answers on the religious stuff. But when I was in church today with old Ollie, Reverend Harper told the congregation-of-the-confused that if we pray in His name, our prayers would be granted. Har
