On several occasions I have said, come close, my love. We have
never promised each other much, because we knew how hard it is
to keep promises. We have not promised anything, but we were to
tell each other all our stories and listen to each otherís stories.
We find it so hard to begin. And the stories are restricted to
children, parents, sweethearts, a few friends. Do you remember?
That the ice broke and my sister fell through it. That my mother
ran after her and years later met her death. Do you remember?
That I left by train and that my father wept on the platform.
We recall the details of great wholes. That my sister
pestered me and won it off me. That my father stifled his past
in silence and dreamt of St. Petersburg. That my mother
apportioned blame and I lied to her. What was important
was not stated. Twenty-five years have passed.
And you have said, come close, my love. I have abandoned women
and sworn to children that I loved them. We can always
begin and find each time an ending, but we have no story.
We return to memories and miss the story.