According to her my brother and I couldn’t have been more different. When asked what we believed I told her that he was a pantheist and I an atheist. She was concerned, to her it was as if we were on opposite sides of a fault-line, an earthquake imminent–our divide could only widen.

She considered his cup full and my cup empty. Her world was black and white. Her world was fundamental. She had faith, she pretended to know things she couldn’t know.

The day she left she wished me well, “certain,” she said that my brother and I would be able to overcome our differences. She sent me pamphlets about how god loved me, and missives with the rules I needed to avoid his tough love. But her missionary zeal waned. I don’t know if she lost her faith, but the word faded, unneeded.

The divide she saw was never there of course. The fault line was not between my brother and me, but between those who require certainty and those who don’t. God is still dead and nihilism is still not a problem, not even Donny is worried.


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