"I was twenty-six before I
finally ran away from home. I'd tried once before; packed my little,
brown schoolbag for the journey, pushed down the silver clasps,
and trudged all the way up our long gravel drive before turning
back. This time, I threw comfortable clothes, sports shoes, paper,
pen into an apple crate, into the boot of the car, and drove down
to the beach for summer, for three months, to write all that had
turned to the second page of the scrapbook, and saw a photo
of a little girl, bundled up against the cold, sitting in a child's
sleigh with snow piled high all around. He was sure the little girl
was his mother. Again, he wondered about the circumstances surrounding
the taking of the picture. He wondered what life had been like back
in those other, olden
Moonie." She hands the woman the flyer. "I'm starting a
Church." "Isn't that nice?" the woman says to the man. She smiles.
Nods again. Under her arm she tucks the flyer, and off they hobble.
Yes! thinks Moonie. Her heart pounds. Her soul soars. "The kickoff
is next Saturday night, at midnight, on Cambridge Common," she calls,
hoping she doesn't sound too excited. "Isn't that nice?" the man
says to the woman, nodding back at Moonie.
my grief to Paris. Yes, I took it to Paris, for it was cluttering
my provincial mind
with a thousand grotesque shapes artfully created to take the place
of love. In
the small Alsatian village of my sorrow, it was mocking me for an
artless marriage, and reproaching me for my divorce.
And I thought, "Twenty-four years old is too young for all of this,
young for grief. And - oh! - a provincial twenty-four is even younger