On my twelfth birthday, Dad, lit on peppermint schnaps, stood at the front window and said, “I know just how you feel, Joe. You’re not the only guy with a wife whose pussy was sealed by God.”
His last words were, “Son, if you marry a saint she’ll make you a devil.”
Then my mother’s eyes part, and the quilt rises like bellows. Mom has the voice of a desert and says, “You were supposed to be born on Christmas.”
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