I remember her story. I remember her telling me as though she knew me, as though she trusted me; God knows all that she did not say. I remember her story, even though her name has faded into her features, become a watercolour memory, washed out around the edges. In a corner of the room, the child slept on, breathing easy.
We met once, almost a decade ago. The child, now, would be about twelve, I suppose. I do not clearly remember his name, God help me, and I tell myself that it doesn’t matter, not to anyone but me, that the story is the same whether or not I remember his name. The only reason it would matter is that each one is wonderfully and fearfully made, unique in the image of an infinite and unrepeatable God, irreducible, ineffable.
And so I wonder if she still weeps. My heart rages wild with hope that the child sleeps on, breathing easy.