With the death of my blue-eyed son Henry, I often found myself driven by the urge to believe in God so I could live to a very old age, then die and meet Him—so I could kick his teeth in. I wanted to be a cockroach. I wanted to survive all the horror and the drudgery and the pain. Didn’t even want to do it happily. I just wanted to endure what shouldn’t be endured, and crawl on elbows and knees over the finish line and tell God to fuck off.
