My first death, though brief, was instructive. There are things I now know. So you’ll excuse me when I say that my son is a saint.
I’m not speaking figuratively. He is. A saint. And yesterday was his 18th birthday.
I was a player in his first miracle. My head was under the water for seven minutes, I’m told. He drew me out of my fluid grave and breathed his breath into me. The first sight of my new life was him, edged with light. Things haven’t looked quite the same since.
It was after the next miracle, the taming of the neighbour’s Doberman, that I began to gather relics. Strands of hair. Eyelashes. I had his baby teeth made into this necklace I’m wearing. They are first class relics, parts of his holy body.
More miracles followed; turning wine into vinegar, curing the roses of black spot. The signs were clear.
Yesterday, his birthday, I decided that it was time for him to know the truth about his holy path. His friends had already gathered, bearing gifts, paying homage. Lit by the spirit of the Lord I went in and led them in prayer. I strewed his miracles before them like pearls and told them of the glory that would be his future. Every one of them was struck silent, awed by the import of my words.
That was the proudest moment of my life.
This morning I went to wake him, but he was gone. Just as the body of Jesus was gone from the tomb. He left a note, but it was a mere third class relic, and the words were meaningless.
“How could you?” he wrote.
Far more exciting was the toilet, unflushed, full of golden liquid.
I’m unclear if it is officially a first or second class relic, but it is doubtless very holy. I have stored it in sterilised bottles for the benefit of the future faithful.
Today I will buy a calf to fatten, preparing for his return.