At the moment when all I knew was turned into a dragon and I fell hopeless in the field of thorns I felt as if I was an Italian mother waving goodbye to her eldest son, or that woman who mailed letters for seventeen years to "the boy with the leather jacket".
What could I say? To think of all these years leading up to a few brief, compact moments. To think of the moments like small cherry blossoms fallen into a small pool of water left as soggy drifters clinging to one and other.
It was an awful sadness him leaving me- two images floated into my line of focus: Rodin's statue, The Kiss; and that amazing end of a book when the boy with the brown leather jacket
did show up, with those bags filled with the letters and announced that he had arrived.
I might admit that I have dreamed of this moment, and thought that I would climb in my car puff a cigarette with red, silly lips and drive off with my hair flying all over the place.
But no one could see themselves clearly turning into one of those fossil collections balanced on strings with the small square blocks saying this was a dinosaur once long ago.