Pops laughed himself into his grave.

Because he knew that he was right.

Everyone spoke of how we were in the service of a cult.

That we were never normal.

It was normal: The prayer meetings, the divine incidents of speaking in tongues, and the visions. Or was it?

We never told the non-believers.

The ones who found out said that this was consistent with mass schizophrenia melded with narcissism.

In our family – These incidents were never meant to leave the home.

Pops, the narcissist, it seemed, only served us in service of himself.

Mum was different.

She knew something even when she croaked her last breath, and managed to say it out aloud: The hunger always passes. Remember that.

She had an appetite for something more normal. She was of course referring to cream buns.

The outsiders laughed at us, but when the fat smiles grew thin, and you just knew.

Daddy was right; he left laughing, and he’ll be walking on streets of gold.

When it started raining brimstones with angels bringing fire along with their smiles, we knew: it was too late to get on our knees and ask forgiveness.

Unlike Daddy, I will be going to my grave screaming.