Dreams Of My Russian Summers

enigmatic syllables to herself… I stopped for a moment; I stared at her eyes. Then I said to myself, 'I must get used to the idea that this woman, younger than me, is my mother.'

I put away the photo, and went on. And when I thought of Charlotte, her presence in these drowsy streets had the reality, discreet and spontaneous, of life itself.

What I still had to find were the words to tell it with.