Cody drifted into la petite mort, which is what the French
call that sleep after orgasm. The little death. Luigi held him in his arms, his eyes wet, gratitude
in his heart. He didn’t know who to thank. Certainly not God. God had made him what he was, had made him
suffer the pain of being an effeminate gay, of being beaten up, of being
despised and disliked. Or maybe that
was just the Christian God, always angry and judgmental. Richard had believed in The Goddess, a loving
Mother to the world, not nearly so cross and jealous and disapproving. Luigi knew la nonna believed in Her too.
Or at least, she never prayed to Jesus or God but to Mary and the female
saints. Once she had said to Luigi that
Jesus was too busy to care about the problems women faced. But Mary cared because She was a woman. She understood women’s hardships and their
lives. Maybe The Goddess Mother of the
world was Mary and maybe something quite other, but Luigi didn’t care. As superstitious as his Calabrian
forefathers, he knew gratitude was necessary, or your luck could turn. So he thanked The Goddess and promised that
he would look after Cody. And, as an
afterthought, Keith and Jason too. Gently, so as not to wake the sleeping Cody,
he kissed the blond curls on the top of his head and settled in to wait until
Cody woke up.
No comments:
Post a Comment