I’ve never yet been involved in a story with a beginning, middle and end. For someone who tells stories this is positively sinful, but I must confess that I have yet to experience a story.
What was the beginning, I ask myself, and get lost
in exactly which beginning I mean. When I first
knew—knew what? Do I know anything? Scent
of sage, pine and rosemary. How candlelight spills
across a dark table. Pale fingers of dawn stretched
on the sky’s blue face. Taste of rye. But these things
are particulars, no sense of plot. There are threads,
I am sure, but I’ve tied them in knots. Or wrapped
them around my right pinkie finger in a futile attempt
to recall who I was. As if that might give me the middle
of the tale—the part in which I fall in love and out
of love and learn at last that I am all alone. Though
that’s not my story, just something I read in a
magazine, something a Buddhist counselor said.
It sounded plausible when I read it, though I thought,
no, my story is different. It ends with, well, I don’t
know that part yet, but I’m sure there’s some happily ever in it.