. . . Companions Were To Be

In Real Life Turning Points Are Sneaky. They Pass By Unlabeled And Unheeded. Opportunities Are Missed, Catastrophes Unwittingly Celebrated. Turning Points Are Only Uncovered Later, By Historians Who Seek To Bring Order To A Lifetime Of Tangled Moments.

To Abandon A Child, She Had Once Said To Someone, When She Thought Cassandra Couldn't Hear, Was An Act So Cold, So Careless, It Refused Forgiveness.

And Then He Was Kissing Her, And She Was Struck By His Nearness, His Solidity, His Smell. It Was Of The Garden And The Earth And The Sun. When Cassandra Opened Her Eyes, She Realized She Was Crying. She Wasn't Sad, Though, These Were The Tears Of Being Found, Of Having Come Home After A Long Time Away.

I Sound Contemptuous, But I Am Not. I Am Interested--intrigued Even--by The Way Time Erases Real Lives, Leaving Only Vague Imprints. Blood And Spirit Fade Away So That Only Names And Dates Remain.

A Twinge At The Edge Of Her Lips And She Continued, The Soft, Slow Lilt Of Recitation: "ancient Walls That Sing The Distant Hours.