Gazing at my new stepmother’s face, I had a sudden vision of a stream in early spring, just before the final thaw. On the surface, a thin sheet of ice. But beneath the surface, the current was racing, swift and strong. Where it might carry us, I could not say.
It grasped Niccolo’s, held on tightly, then was followed by the rest of the arm. A head emerged, neck bent down so as not to knock the top of it against the inside of the door. Next, a pair of shoulders, wrapped in a dark blue cloak. And now, finally, one foot was upon the carriage steps and the woman inside the coach was straightening up.
What do you know about yourself? What are your stories? The ones you tell yourself, and the ones told by others. All of us begin somewhere. Though I suppose the truth is that we begin more than once; we begin many times. Over and over, we start our own tales, compose our own stories, whether our lives are short or long.