My Bag Was As Light As My

It's A Funny Thing About Bogs. You Can Fill Them With Rocks And Sand And Old Logs And Make A Little Fenced-in Yard On Top With A Woodpile And Chopping Block - But Bogs Go Right On Behaving Like Bogs. Early In The Spring They Breathe Ice And Make Their Own Mist, In Remembrance Of The Time When They Had Black Water And Their Own Sedge Blossoming Untouched.

They Were Always Doing Something. Quietly, Without Interruption, And With Great Concentration, They Carried On With The Hundred-and-one Small Things That Made Up Their World.

Now Everything Was Changed. She Walked About With Cautious, Anxious Steps, Staring Constantly At The Ground, On The Lookout For Things That Crept And Crawled. Bushes Were Dangerous, And So Were Sea Grass And Rain Water. There Were Little Animals Everywhere. They Could Turn Up Between The Covers Of A Book, Flattened And Dead, For The Fact Is That Creeping Animals, Tattered Animals, And Dead Animals Are With Us All Our Lives, From Beginning To End. Grandmother Tried To Discuss This With Her, To No Avail. Irrational Terror Is So Hard To Deal With.

Maybe My Passion Is Nothing Special, But At Least It's Mine.

It's Funny About Love', Sophia Said. 'the More You Love Someone, The Less He Likes You Back.' 'that's Very True,' Grandmother Observed. 'and So What Do You Do?' 'you Go On Loving,' Said Sophia Threateningly. 'you Love Harder And Harder.