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CENTRIPETAL
STAGE TWO: A NGER NORA TOOMEY Cancer stole religion out of the hands of my father. Instead of catechism, he’d drive to family hiking spots so we could spend our Sundays picking up stones. Woods are cold in the morning. So we’d race through the cut and green of a pine cove until a deep breath tasted like blood. By the river, we’d eat grapes and cheese. While in our hometown, a dry and brittle body sat broken in the mouths of our friends. It isn’t that my father lost faith; I’d catch him sometimes after dinner, missing my mother, listening to Sunday night prayers, singing along in Latin, his secret. What he didn’t know,