She gave Hitchens the blame. Him with his blasphemous books and radical leftist friends. She said my curiosity let the devil in, and now the cat is dead.
She threw everything she could find, me dodging and weaving along the trail to the bedroom, where she raged and hurled pillows before throwing herself on the bed to bawl, for my lost soul, and scream how selfish I was, for succumbing to the things of the world.
She told me a child of God returned to the sinners path could still find redemption, but my case was different, because I had knowingly and willfully taken up with a den of sinners in league with Lucifer himself, this Cristopher Hitchens and his lapdog Dawkins. God hardened his heart, and even sent cancer to eat him alive, she warned me, ample proof that the wages of sin is death.
She slept in the guest-room that night, and didn’t appear for breakfast the next morning, which, my mama said, is not unusual when women are upset.
She was gone when I came home.
On the kitchen table were three plates, covered over to keep whatever was inside warm. And a note: “I love you, but I love God more:”
When I lifted the metal covers, I found my three copies of Hitchens’ books; God Is Not Great. Love, Poverty & War. Hitch-22. Smothered in ketchup. And yoghurt dressing. A cherry glazed each of three mustard written words. God. Is. Great.
French Fries, still warm, were piled around each book. I ate those.
Hitchens is dead. I miss him. I’m not going to miss her.
The ghost of christmas past, forever present, in the future – The Never Ending Party