I don’t remember a time when church wasn’t a part of my mother’s life, and I don’t remember a time when it was ever a part of my father’s, and perhaps in searching for simple explanations that was the problem. Sundays were my mother’s favourite day of the week, days we two girls wore small golden crosses around our necks. Mum would fuss over our dresses and hair, spitting on a hanky to wipe some speck or smear from our faces before marching us to the car at eight-thirty in the morning in order to be seated and ready for the opening hymn at nine. I remember the priest talking about the light of God but I couldn’t muster the same fascination for the light of God that I had for the moth light outside our kitchen. Sally tugged on my dress or pinched my arm when Mum was praying and had her eyes closed. And, when she’d finished praying, while everyone was saying ‘Amen’, Mum would pinch my other arm for making noise during prayer. Dad never came with us.
