The divorced mother and her divorcing

    daughter. The about-to-be ex-son-in-law

    and the ex-husband's adopted son.

    The divorcing daughter's child， who is

    the step-nephew of the ex-husband's

    adopted son. Everyone cordial：

    the ex-husband's second wife

    friendly to the first wife， warm

    to the divorcing daughter's child's

    great-grandmother， who was herself

    long ago divorced. Everyone

    grown used to the idea of divorce.

    Almost everyone has separated

    from the landscape of a childhood.

    Collections of people in cities

    are divorced from clean air and stars.

    Toddlers in day care are parted

    from working parents， schoolchildren

    from the assumption of unbloodied

    daylong safety. Old people die apart

    from all they've gathered over time，

    and in strange beds. Adults

    grow estranged¹ from a God

    evidently divorced from History；

    most are cut off from their own

    histories， each of which waits

    like a child left at day care.

    What if you turned back for a moment

    and put your arms around yours？

    Yes， you might be late for work；

    no， your history doesn't smell sweet

    like a toddler's head. But look

    at those small round wrists，

    that short-legged， comical walk.

    Caress² your history——who else will？

    Promise to come back later.

    Pay attention when it asks you

    simple questions： Where are we going？

    Is it scary？ What happened？ Can

    I have more now？ Who is that？

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