How can I hope that this will not happen to my memory? That it is not happening already? Slowly, quietly, like snowflakes “like the small flakes that come when it is going to snow all night” little flakes of me, my impressions, my selections, are settling down on the image of her. The real shape will be quite hidden in the end. Ten minutes “ten seconds” of the real would correct all this. And yet, even if those ten seconds were allowed me, one second later the little flakes would begin to fall again. The rough, sharp, cleansing tang of her otherness is gone.
