Light Is Constant, We Just Turn Over

Memory Can Make A Thing Seem To Have Been Much More Than It Was.

She Conceived Of Life As A Road Down Which One Traveled, An Easy Enough Road Through A Broad Country, And That One's Destination Was There From The Very Beginning, A Measured Distance Away, Standing In The Ordinary Light Like Some Plain House Where One Went In And Was Greeted By Respectable People And Was Shown To A Room Where Everything One Had Ever Lost Or Put Aside Was Gathered Together, Waiting.

I Do Assume That A Character Or A Place Is Inexhaustible And Will Always Reward Further Attention.

There Is More Beauty Than Our Eyes Can Bear, Precious Things Have Been Put Into Our Hands And To Do Nothing To Honor Them Is To Do Great Harm.

Then There Is The Matter Of My Mother's Abandonment Of Me. Again, This Is The Common Experience. They Walk Ahead Of Us, And Walk Too Fast, And Forget Us, They Are So Lost In Thoughts Of Their Own, And Soon Or Late They Disappear. The Only Mystery Is That We Expect It To Be Otherwise.