“Wait, wait—wait a minute, Jerry. Stop talking.” Mom never could listen straight through a story without interrupting, whether to ask a question or make tea or use the toilet. Today it was a question: “What do you mean you’re God?”

I had to wait a beat. My internal sense of comedic timing would not be denied. I nodded, spread my hands wide, said it again.

“This is a very poor joke, Jerry.”

I explained as seriously as I could manage that it was, indeed, not a joke.

“You’re making fun of me, Jerry. I know you’ve parted ways with church and Jesus Christ our savior but that doesn’t mean you can… can…. I won’t have it.”

I created tea for her out of nowhere, incidentally restoring a piece of china she’d been missing for years, and waved away the pressure in her bladder as an afterthought. “The really ironic part for me,” I said, “is that science proved my existence.You see, there was always a finite probability that I already was God.”