There is no beginning. I can recall a faint memory of watching my mother sway back and forth in an old rocking chair and listening to her sing Amazing Grace through the brittle bars of my kindly old crib. But this seemingly initial impression may actually be the effect of stories told to me later in life or the convergence of many different memories and pictures locked away until they are needed to manifest for comfort or meaning in my now cold and desperate adult life. I may just as well start by telling you about the Mormon boy who spurned me in the name of God when I was fifteen or the time my Grandma Helen went out to the barn in the middle of the night, but never came back. The order in which I reveal these secrets matters little compared to the complete existence of all of my stories. I keep them with me, even if I don’t want to and when I meet a stranger or an old friend our stories intersect and another piece is added to the edge of the universe. My stories simply become my Story and our stories become our Story.


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