Why does one person call up another years later? After the Dear Jane and the Pomp and Circumstance; after the sorority luncheons and sit-ins, and the peace before the war; after the media was thought to be a good translation; after experimentation was broiled salmon in a lemon dill sauce and marriage was sturdy and boring like a mossy stone. And even later still, after the body was forgotten by its caretaker, and the mind was washed in tidal rue; after the mailman became threatening with his tall socks and his discontent; and information crowded the electric streets?
How, after all this, could one person call up another years later (as if memory were collecting his fee) and ask forgiveness for that moment at the lake, or outside the window on a roof, or in the caf' bruised by shadows ' that moment when life took in a breath and then collapsed and emotion was likened to a priest and a prison guard? Will the apology be refused? Can it be? Does the breath go with the voice and love sink further into the stomach? Or does the odyssey of a million thoughts between two lives warm the remembrance and fill the lungs?
