The tragedy of this world is that everyone is alone. For a life in the past cannot be shared with the present.
I have not told half of what I saw.
I've heard that my father was a really funny man in company, but I never got to see that side of him. I was just 17 when he died, and he didn't know that I was funny.
I've had some interesting stuff happen to me - so why doesn't anyone ask me?
In truth, I barely knew my father at all. He was 53 when I was born, and when I was ten he contracted cancer. Eight years later, in 1979, he died.
There are lots of things that happen to me that I don't write about.
I'm incredibly sad that my mother's not here to see my kids and that my kids don't get to know her. And she didn't meet my husband. That's one of the hardest things. I don't even know how to put that into words.
I had a twin, and he didn't make it.
I wish my father had lived longer. He died when I was 18.
In my defence I can only say that her past, too, like mine, like everyone's in fact, was a locked box. Occasionally we allow people a peep, but generally only at the top level. The darker streams of our memories we negotiate alone.
