And what if my memory of things can't be reconciled with yours? What then?
Let me tell you what I remember - or thought I remembered until you used
that word in your letter:
Mountains and the desert and a lizard with spots. Smooth stones. Space. You
didn't demand my freedom, and I left with it still wrapped securely around me.
No ill-will and no expectations. You
drew me in, soothed me and let me go.
Is that what you remember?