All those things wrapped up in touch—in skin. My throat is suddenly dry. ‘First time?’ ‘No,’ I manage to croak. ‘Then you know the drill. ...ndress to your comfort level,’ she continues in a soft voice, handing me a pale green flannel sheet which feels as if it’s just been taken from a dryer, ‘and lie on the table on your back. I’ll be back in just a moment.’ I can’t look her in the eyes. In a few minutes, she’ll be running her hands over my skin, and it’s too much—too close for comfort—to also. I have heard so many stories about how I had caused so and so to poop in their pants from my mental gibberish, or how many people my mother had to use her gift on to unscramble their minds. It was a very hard time for my mother. She couldn't allow innocent people to become vegetables because her son was just learning how to "talk". She went to confessionals everyday during my early years. I can't imagine how the Fathers she confessed to take her daily accounts of mental sin, but they never said. More

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