I became somewhat of a Pollyanna during the heyday of my Mormon experience. I didn’t look around, but straight ahead—to the end I had to endure to.
The notion of a Church family was like a second cousin, thrice removed. It was unfamiliar & wonderful. It wasn’t obtained through blood or marriage, but through adoption.
Their highest level of heaven was about being reunited with their families, & I thought how many holes there would be in that happy place.
Here I was, not ready to grow up all the way quite yet, & Caitlin, in her own way, was growing up too fast.
Tony may have been a sex maniac, marrying Kath to relieve his urge to have sinless sex, but he was a better man than Elder Roberts, for he was marrying the one he loved.
The Coveys had more kids than the Von Trapps, & I thought how larger numbers seemed to breed informality.
My friend Brad saw in me then, what I did not see in myself—the love I had for my stepfather that went beyond fatherly.
The Fosters—the owners of the diner David & I had secretly dined in—had been the aunt & uncle who’d raised him, the foster parents who’d never approved of Mother.
Beth & Gerald had loved me as if I were David’s very own. If only I’d known, I would’ve loved them more while they were alive than after they died.
It was incongruous that David grew up on a farm in rural Pennsylvania, only to become the epitome of urbanity in a township in Green Haven, Florida.