maryWhen I was 40, a teacher asked me if I knew what I could trust. “What in the world can you believe in?” he wanted to know.

“Certainly not you,” I said. This pleased him. “Certainly not my family,” I continued. “Certainly not M — or any man.”

“Not friends. Not work. Not school. Not books,” I continued.

“Not money, my house, this country, my memories.”

“Not the laughter of children, my child, not hope, even.”

“Or a kiss, lips on wet skin, not even an in-breath.”

But, when I imagine Mary — the sad eyes, those tears, her vast love — I find myself thinking there’s that, at least. I can trust that, certainly.


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