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Sunday morning I lay alone in my relatively virginal bed, staring at the ceiling and reflecting on life’s little ironies. How was it that I, wounded and smeared with lasagna, bandaged by a veterinarian who preferred my sister, assisted by the veteran who preferred my mother—how was it that I was the one in the dog house?
Okay, I should have mentioned to my mother about getting shot. Was that grounds for ostracism? Rebellion raged in my soul as I dressed for church, moving as stiffly as an old woman. Had I recently felt young? Oh hubris!
Grimly I collected my purse, eased on a coat, and flying the flags of defiance, I let myself out through the garage so no one could see me in time to ignore me. Perhaps Reverend Hilliard would be inspired to speak on repentance or compassion. The guil
