To tell a story is to take power over it. Now they—we—are part of a tale, a made thing—a perspective box! What begins as a trick of craft makes it possible to stand apart, to—forgive? Not exactly. The stubborn past is not to be dissolved by any act of will, and perhaps we ought at last to be glad for that. What happened defines us, always; erase the darkness in you at your own peril, since it’s inextricable at last from who you are.

And who are you, anyway—with the shadow you also carry, because you are your parents’ son—who are you to forgive? They were nearly helpless, as people are; they did what they knew how to do, under the disfiguring pressure of circumstance. They loved the children whom they brought to harm.

Surely their actions might be something we’d do ourselves: the hand raised to strike could be your hand, the face that trembles to receive the blow your face. The finger on the trigger yours, afraid; the heart held in the gun sights yours also.

And that is close enough to forgiveness, to find that any character in the dream of your life might be you. But you don’t know that until you tell the story; caught in the narrative yourself, how could you see from that height?

Though the firebird can; that’s the business of birds, to see from the correcting perspective of above. All along, the firebird watches, patient in ashes, smoldering till the hour to flame. Just one dance teaches it to believe in the brightness to come. All it ever needed was a practice run, in preparation for someday’s full emblazoning.

A visit to Larry and Edith, in Tucson. Historic, for me: at forty-four, I’ve finally brought my lover home, which ought to be momentous, and is in fact exhausting for us both. It isn’t long before even Paul’s good spirits flag and wither like some poor unwatered plant in the desert sun.

Larry: “Remember that restaurant you took us to in Province-town? Well, that sure wasn’t four star.”

Edith: “Did you boys ever do anything about that front door?”

Larry, later: “Well, Mark, your house sure wouldn’t pass the white-glove test.”