I had it all wrong she says as if memory were an idle trifle that could be fiddle-faddled with like some lump of clay until it acquiesced to the shape one wished it to assume but I know that isn’t right I was there and her story can’t be justified by the events as I saw and understood them to occur not saying I got inside the heads of all the others yet I know what I know and I know what she says isn’t so none of it makes sense even if you leave out all the parts she does or reinterprets like trimming puzzle pieces to fit a frame what we all say until the vision refocuses enough to fit her telling but then there are so many knots of time in this chain each one fashioned after its own fashion that untying them all becomes like climbing bare-handed up a piano wire soon slippery with blood and what is left of reconciliation is tangled in ribbons of flesh nearest the heart: truth is a complicated lie
(August 2001-April 2003)
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