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75 Early Childhood was the morning infusing us and borders more like fur than surface, slurred with sun and somehow spilling into others, bowls into bowls, as we sat in a half-moon circle on the wooden floor. That was in Indian-style, with our legs over and under in the trust that everything was what we had to learn. And so we listened as the white-haired woman read the words: purple, juniper, bread and spoon. And she called each world good in the way she held it— its laminated spine like the crackling stem of a newborn’s head. Our heads then were huge bone baskets made mostly of openings. We leaned them into the moment light crested and broke into the forms of things, shapes they taught us to memorize while we felt their volumes filling up. 76 Oh, wasn’t it the most gradual thing, this sharpening into separate? Remember when still my hand in yours was either one? ...

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