I didn’t always know what a womb was.
When I was young, very young, and learning from Sister Sylvia that the Virgin Mary had a
blessed, fruitful one, I imagined a well-stocked pyramid. And being a loving son with a genuine
love of the Virgin Mary, I naturally extended this attribute to my own mother, who, I gathered,
had died in the bed in the room I was born in.
Then one day the gentle nun whispered low in my ear of my slip of the ear.
“It is not, lad,” she said, “your mother’s tomb whence you received your soul, but her womb.”
I couldn’t wait to scramble home and search for souls in my mother’s room.