Under the rusty annexe that must once have belonged to something else, that is held together with cobwebs and ribbons, we don’t mean to mention dead mother but we do. Dead mother, who aren’t in heaven, we say in unison, in deep voices as if we are truly solemn, as if we don’t know it should be our father who art in heaven. Then we laugh and one of us whispers, Hallowed by thy name. Hallowed be, the other says. Then we laugh together again as though we are little hyenas.
