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"
That
’
s
the
greatest
difficulty
with
telling
the
truth
.
Can
I
beat
the
children
a
little
to
celebrate
the
day
before
Resurrection
?
I
promise
to
break
no
bones
.
"
"
I
haven
’
t
washed
my
face
,
"
she
said
.
"
I
couldn
’
t
imagine
who
was
rattling
around
in
the
kitchen
.
"
When
she
had
gone
up
to
the
bathroom
,
I
put
my
note
to
her
in
my
pocket
.
And
I
still
didn
’
t
know
.
Does
anyone
ever
know
even
the
outer
fringe
of
another
?
What
are
you
like
in
there
?
Mary
—
do
you
hear
?
Who
are
you
in
there
?
That
Saturday
morning
seemed
to
have
a
pattern
.
I
wonder
whether
all
days
have
.
It
was
a
withdrawn
day
.
The
little
gray
whisper
of
my
Aunt
Deborah
came
to
me
,
"
Of
course
,
Jesus
is
dead
.
This
is
the
only
day
in
the
world
’
s
days
when
He
is
dead
.
And
all
men
and
women
are
dead
too
.
Jesus
is
in
Hell
.
But
tomorrow
.
Just
wait
until
tomorrow
.
Then
you
’
ll
see
something
.
"
I
don
’
t
remember
her
very
clearly
,
the
way
you
don
’
t
remember
someone
too
close
to
look
at
.
But
she
read
the
Scripture
to
me
like
a
daily
newspaper
and
I
suppose
that
’
s
the
way
she
thought
of
it
,
as
something
going
on
happening
eternally
but
always
exciting
and
new
.
Every
Easter
,
Jesus
really
rose
from
the
dead
,
an
explosion
,
expected
but
nonetheless
new
.
It
wasn
’
t
two
thousand
years
ago
to
her
;
it
was
now
.
And
she
planted
something
of
that
in
me
.
I
can
’
t
remember
wanting
to
open
the
store
before
.
I
think
I
hated
every
sluggish
sloven
of
a
morning
.
But
this
day
I
wanted
to
go
.
I
love
my
Mary
with
all
my
heart
,
in
some
ways
much
better
than
myself
,
but
it
is
also
true
that
I
do
not
always
listen
to
her
with
complete
attention
.
When
she
tells
the
chronicle
of
clothes
and
health
and
conversations
which
please
and
enlighten
her
,
I
do
not
listen
at
all
,
so
that
sometimes
she
exclaims
,
"
But
you
should
have
known
.
I
told
you
.
I
remember
very
clearly
telling
you
on
Thursday
morning
.
"
And
there
’
s
no
doubt
at
all
about
that
.
She
did
tell
me
.
She
tells
me
everything
in
certain
areas
.
This
morning
I
not
only
didn
’
t
listen
,
I
wanted
to
get
away
from
it
.
Maybe
I
wanted
to
talk
myself
and
I
didn
’
t
have
anything
to
say
—
because
,
to
give
her
fair
due
,
she
doesn
’
t
listen
to
me
either
,
and
a
good
thing
sometimes
.
She
listens
to
tones
and
intonations
and
from
them
gathers
her
facts
about
health
and
how
my
mood
is
and
am
I
tired
or
gay
.
And
that
’
s
as
good
a
way
as
any
.
Now
that
I
think
of
it
,
she
doesn
’
t
listen
to
me
because
I
am
not
talking
to
her
,
but
to
some
dark
listener
within
myself
.
And
she
doesn
’
t
really
talk
to
me
either
.
Of
course
when
the
children
or
some
other
hell
-
raising
crises
are
concerned
,
all
that
changes
.
I
’
ve
thought
so
often
how
telling
changes
with
the
nature
of
the
listener
.
Much
of
my
talk
is
addressed
to
people
who
are
dead
,
like
my
little
Plymouth
Rock
Aunt
Deborah
or
old
Cap
’
n
.
I
find
myself
arguing
with
them
.
I
remember
once
in
weary
,
dusty
combat
I
called
out
to
old
Cap
’
n
,
"
Do
I
have
to
?
"
And
he
replied
very
clearly
,
"
Course
you
do
.
And
don
’
t
whisper
.
"
He
didn
’
t
argue
—
never
did
.
Just
said
I
must
,
and
so
I
did
.
Nothing
mysterious
or
mystic
about
that
.
It
’
s
asking
for
advice
or
an
excuse
from
the
inner
part
of
you
that
is
formed
and
certain
.
For
pure
telling
,
which
is
another
way
of
saying
asking
,
my
mute
and
articulate
canned
and
bottled
goods
in
the
grocery
serve
very
well
.
So
does
any
passing
animal
or
bird
.
They
don
’
t
argue
and
they
don
’
t
repeat
.
