My mothers confession.

I grew up a good catholic boy in Burbank California. It seemed odd to go to confession in a town that was dedicated to telling tall tails. And usually that's about all I had to confess. But still more often than not I found myself sitting in the pew staring at a very stern looking St. Joseph. And than it would start. I could hear her wailing and crying behind the confessional door. I wondered what she could have done this week that caused her such anguish. And this would last for at least three decades of hell marys and glory bees. She would come out of there worn and exhausted looking and kneel down in prayer. It has taken me forty years to figure out that my future was the cause of all her sorrow.