Come here till I comb your hair, said Grandma. Look at that mop, it won’t lie down.You didn’t get that hair from my side of the family. That’s that North of Ireland hair you got from your father.That’s the kind of hair you see on Presbyterians. If your mother had married a proper decent Limerickman you wouldn’t have this standing up, North of Ireland, Presbyterian hair. She spat twice on my head. Grandma, will you please stop spitting on my head. If  you  have  anything  to  say,  shut  up. A  little  spit  won’t  kill  you. Come on, we’ll be late for the Mass. We  ran  to  the  church.  My  mother  panted  along  behind  with Michael in her arms.We arrived at the church just in time to see the last of the boys leaving the altar rail where the priest stood with the chalice and the host, glaring at me.Then he placed on my tongue the wafer, the body and blood of Jesus.At last, at last. It’s on my tongue. I draw it back. It stuck. I had God glued to the roof of my mouth. I could hear the master’s voice, Don’t let that host touch your teeth for if you bite God in two you’ll roast in hell for eternity. I tried to get God down with my tongue but the priest hissed at me, Stop that clucking and get back to your seat. God was good.  He melted and I swallowed Him and now, at last, I was a member of the True Church, an official sinner. When the Mass ended there they were at the door of the church, my  mother  with  Michael  in  her  arms,  my  grandmother. They  each hugged me to their bosoms.They each told me it was the happiest day of my life.They each cried all over my head and after my grandmother’s contribution that morning my head was a swamp. Mam, can I go now and make The Collection? She said,After you have a little breakfast. No, said Grandma.You’re not making no collection till you’ve had a proper First Communion breakfast at my house. Come on. We followed her. She banged pots and rattled pans and complained that the whole world expected her to be at their beck and call. I ate the egg, I ate the sausage, and when I reached for more sugar for my tea she slapped my hand away. Go aisy with that sugar. Is it a millionaire you think I am? An Amer- 128