When I was younger I felt
sorry for myself
compulsively; in practical
terms,
I had no father; my mother
lived at her loom
hypothesizing
her husband's erotic life;
gradually
I realized no child on that
island had
a different story; my trials
were the general rule, common
to all of us, a bond
among us, therefore
with humanity: what
a life my mother had, without
compassion for my father's
suffering, for a soul
ardent by nature, thus
ravaged by choice, nor had my
father
any sense of her courage,
subtly
expressed as inaction, being
himself prone to dramatizing,
to acting out: I found
I could share these
perceptions
with my closest friends, as
they shared
theirs with me, to test them,
to refine them: as a grown
man
I can look at my parents
impartially and pity them
both: I hope
always to be able to pity
them.