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She
lay
awake
for
many
hours
into
the
night
,
among
her
trunks
and
trinkets
.
She
glanced
over
at
the
neat
stacks
of
materials
and
toys
and
opera
plumes
and
said
,
aloud
,
"
Does
it
really
belong
to
me
?
"
Or
was
it
the
elaborate
trick
of
an
old
lady
convincing
herself
that
she
had
a
past
?
After
all
,
once
a
time
was
over
,
it
was
done
.
You
were
always
in
the
present
.
She
may
have
been
a
girl
once
,
but
was
not
now
.
Her
childhood
was
gone
and
nothing
could
fetch
it
back
.
A
night
wind
blew
in
the
room
.
The
white
curtain
fluttered
against
a
dark
cane
,
which
had
leaned
against
the
wall
near
the
other
bric
-
a
-
brac
for
many
years
.
The
cane
trembled
and
fell
out
into
a
patch
of
moonlight
,
with
a
soft
thud
.
Its
gold
ferule
glittered
.
It
was
her
husband
’
s
opera
cane
.
It
seemed
as
if
he
were
pointing
it
at
her
,
as
he
often
had
,
using
his
soft
,
sad
,
reasonable
voice
when
they
,
upon
rare
occasions
,
disagreed
.
"
Those
children
are
right
,
"
he
would
have
said
.
"
They
stole
nothing
from
you
,
my
dear
.
These
things
don
’
t
belong
to
you
here
,
you
now
.
They
belonged
to
her
,
that
other
you
,
so
long
ago
.
"
Oh
,
thought
Mrs
.
Bentley
.
And
then
,
as
though
an
ancient
phonograph
record
had
been
set
hissing
under
a
steel
needle
,
she
remembered
a
conversation
she
had
once
had
with
Mr
.
Bentley
—
Mr
.
Bentley
,
so
prim
,
a
pink
carnation
in
his
whisk
-
broomed
lapel
,
saying
,
"
My
dear
,
you
never
will
understand
time
,
will
you
?
You
’
re
always
trying
to
be
the
things
you
were
,
instead
of
the
person
you
are
tonight
.
Why
do
you
save
those
ticket
stubs
and
theater
programs
?
They
’
ll
only
hurt
you
later
.
Throw
them
away
,
my
dear
.
"
But
Mrs
.
Bentley
had
stubbornly
kept
them
.
"
It
won
’
t
work
,
"
Mr
.
Bentley
continued
,
sipping
his
tea
.
"
No
matter
how
hard
you
try
to
be
what
you
once
were
,
you
can
only
be
what
you
are
here
and
now
.
Time
hypnotizes
.
When
you
’
re
nine
,
you
think
you
’
ve
always
been
nine
years
old
and
will
always
be
.
When
you
’
re
thirty
,
it
seems
you
’
ve
always
been
balanced
there
on
that
bright
rim
of
middle
life
.
And
then
when
you
turn
seventy
,
you
are
always
and
forever
seventy
.
You
’
re
in
the
present
,
you
’
re
trapped
in
a
young
now
or
an
old
now
,
but
there
is
no
other
now
to
be
seen
.
"
It
had
been
one
of
the
few
,
but
gentle
,
disputes
of
their
quiet
marriage
.
He
had
never
approved
of
her
bric
-
a
-
brackery
.
"
Be
what
you
are
,
bury
what
you
are
not
,
"
he
had
said
.
"
Ticket
stubs
are
trickery
.
Saving
things
is
a
magic
trick
,
with
mirrors
.
"
