An earthworm, dislodged by my rootings in the garden, coiled on the surface, gleaming, moving disjointedly and slowly, comprehending the air and the light, its head occasionally moving, snake-like, upwards, turning slowly, tasting the atmosphere, deciding somewhere in its instincts that it was not right, not home, and turning again to descend back into the earth, calmly, without panic, moving away down into the cool moisture where it belonged, and all the time I watched, feeling the soil and the slime, knowing the compartments of the body and the movements, feeling the foreignness of the air, wanting the chill dampness of the earth and going back into it, not without a sense of danger from the exposure, but accepting it, not grateful that there had been no injury, just as there would have been no resentment if there had been.

It was a drifting, dream-like and very conscious time. When I saw the man, he was like a bird, catching my attention with his movement, holding it as my mind moved into him.

I saw him as he reached the top of the lane. I was in the garden, slowly pulling out plants, when I caught the movement and my eyes pursued it. He saw me almost immediately and stopped, then began walking again, toward me now, moving ponderously, steadily, and I watched him and felt the heaviness of the steps, the weight behind them. He was not like the earthworm on the surface; the atmosphere was alien to him, too, but he was frightened by it.

I watched him.

He was close now and I knew the face; it was odd that I had not recognized the body, the movements, the fear, but the face I knew and I, too, felt a foreignness and wanted to back away. I was threatened; and then, aware of that, I stopped, considered where the threat was. It came from myself, of course, nothing from this man who I knew would not hurt me. It was my own fear of having what I knew disrupted, perhaps destroyed, for it was only beginning really, it was not solid yet, it needed time and growth and I was afraid it might be trampled, as I could have crushed the earthworm.

I must be strong, I thought.

The man was in front of me now, standing over me, for I remained crouched in the garden, my hands still in the soil, and I could see myself through his eyes, like an animal looking up at him. I was both of us at once, myself seeing him towering above me, shocked and unhappy and brave, and myself huddled, it seemed, and watchful. I could not feel. I had not understood before how it would be to see a person so familiar and so far away, and not to feel.

The man’s voice was very quiet. “Abra,” he said.

I stood slowly, my eyes still on him. “Yes, Stephen.”