Crying out, my mother tumbled to the ground. My mother was in her garden, the one she planted and tended with her own two hands, when two claps of thunder, one from the east and the other from the west, met above her head in a great collision of sound. This was an omen of life’s arrival.Īt dusk, a great storm arose, catching everyone by surprise. This was an omen of life taking flight.Īt full noon, every single tree in every single orchard on my father’s estate burst into bloom at once, in spite of the fact that it was October.
Its rising light stained their wings bloodred. Just at daybreak, a flock of white birds flew across the face of the sun. And that my coming was so sudden, hot, and swift, it carried everything before it away, including my mother’s life.įull of confusion was the day of my birth, of portents, and of omens. This is the first story I ever heard about myself: that I came into this world before my time. Until at last all our beginnings come down to just one end, and the tale of who we are is done. Over and over, we start our own tales, compose our own stories, whether our lives are short or long.
Though I suppose the truth is that we begin more than once we begin many times.
What do you know about yourself? What are your stories? The ones you tell yourself, and the ones told by others.
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