I’ve been melted into somethingtoo easy to spill. I make moreand more of myself in orderto make more and more of the baby. He takes it, this making. And somehowhe’s made more of me, too.

What if all possiblepain was only the grief of truth?

Where can wego if not to each other,resenting every step?

Secret, smug believers! God never gives youmore than you can bear, they like to say, as ifthe strong should be punished for their strength:We can bear it. So we got it.But what about my baby?...

How anyone becomes herself/is a mystery.