Bless These Thin Threads that Lead Us

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.
—William Wenders

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.

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