In those days I was on a newfound warpath for all things spiritual. You and Dora had seen to it that I was confirmed the year prior. For Lutherans that meant I could finally partake of the holy Eucharist, which we believed transfigured into the actual blood and body of Christ the moment it touched our tongues. You and I spent an entire weekend in preparatory excitement, shopping for a crisp-collared shirt, a red silk tie, and my first suit — a dark-navy three-buttoned single-breasted polyester situation from Moores — all of which was completely hidden below the white confirmation gown. It seems comic and a little tragic to me now, how flush with pride and anticipation I was to finally take part in this divine rite of cannibalism. To take into me the Body of the Host, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. That holy hydra. But the body that the pastor placed on my tongue that morning, the tongue of a boy on the brink of coming to terms with his sexuality, was devoid of person, of emotion, of willpower, of responsibility, and as my mouth closed around it I was aware in the full blinding light of day that it was, and would remain, a cracker. And just like that, a millennium of ancestral beliefs ended with me.