Come here till I comb your hair, said Grandma. Look at that mop,
it wont lie down.You didnt get that hair from my side of the family.
Thats that North of Ireland hair you got from your father.Thats the
kind of hair you see on Presbyterians. If your mother had married a
proper decent Limerickman you wouldnt 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 wont kill you.
Come on, well 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.
Its on my tongue. I draw it back.
It stuck.
I had God glued to the roof of my mouth. I could hear the masters
voice, Dont let that host touch your teeth for if you bite God in two
youll 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 grandmothers
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.Youre not making no collection till youve 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-
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