They tumble one upon another until I can see little else but sameness and repetition. The first walkings of the toddlers and the first victories of youths brought forth for me to share. Serial baby smiles and the sweet cooings of new generations. Joys of motherhood, I think, and the birthing beds are mine. men who have died by the sword-and I have them in all of their gore, every image intact, every moan, every grimace. Sufferance makes this true, sufferance and one thing more:Īll of them are mine. Oh, I promise you (as I have been promised) that I answer to but a single name. This person of my name, this Leto who is the second of that calling, finds other voices in his mind, other names and other places. Slowly (slowly, I say) I relearn my name. And when the box opens, I return to this presence like a stranger in a primitive land. I am tossed about in a storm of mysteries. I am a chip of shattered flint enclosed in a box. What prisms flash when I enter the terrible field of my past. For my questions explode! Answers leap up like a frightened flock, blackening the sky of my inescapable memories. “I ASSURE you that I am the book of fate.
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