Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not as long as there are plums to eat and somebody –anybody– who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you.
That was the instant a tensile line stretched between us. Some silk actually seemed to spin invisibly in the summer air from him to me. I pictured at its end this silver hook flying – unseen by others – into my chest to lodge in the meat of my heart and forever tether me to him.
For years you’ve felt only half-done inside, cobbled together by paper clips, held intact by gum wads and school paste. But something solid is starting to assemble inside you. You say, I am my Same Self. That’s not nothing, is it?
…I see big adventures for Mary. Big adventures, long roads, great oceans: same self.
Promise loses its sheen if it goes undelivered long enough.
Before such enchantment takes us, there are only the faces of parents, other kin. Those are doled out to us; they are us in some portion. These first beloveds are other. And we invent ourselves by choosing them.
So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens on pinches, only rolling abundance…You don’t give it. You earn it.
We should be friends. These other people are idiots.