Albert Ellman didn’t think he would care — he was surprised that he was even aware — that it was Easter.
Easter hadn’t meant much to him since he was a little boy, and not much to him then. Get dressed up. Go to his mother’s cavernous church. Sit on a bench. Listen to a man in a long dress endlessly drone in a tone that would bore a corpse. Try not to fidget. Fail. Get half the flesh on his arm wrenched off by his mother, who took church more seriously than anyone, probably including the Pope. [Read more…]