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The church was politically active, talked about segregation, Vietnam instead of repentance and sin. By the time you were fourteen, she'd stopped going altogether. Though her penchant for the piano had caused relatives at home to view her as special, in Ann Arbor she was an outsider: an Irish girl with a thick Boston accent and no college education. Your father dance tried to get her to go back to school, but she was too intimidated. Her headaches dance grew worse. The doctors said it dance was all in her mind. You were in love with your mother, of course. Oedipus had nothing on you. She could do no wrong, while your father was a cold tyrant in your eyes, though you never in seventeen years of living at home heard him raise his voice. Every girl you dated seemed a pale comparison to Saint Mary, with her porcelain skin and kind, changing eyes.
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