Memory is a one-way glass.
I can look back at the 10-year old child on a farm in Washougal, Washington, walking on a path through eight foot tall blackberry bushes to a field where sheep are grazing.
But she cannot see forward to the girl who will spend years in and out of hospital.
Nor can she see the red-haired beauty living communally in Virginia.
Would she believe her eyes if she could see herself strolling beside the Seine with a handsome artist in a black wool beret?
She could never imagine the 64-year old woman sitting at a desk in an apartment in a Seattle suburb who is typing on a machine that shows her words on a screen that will be retained with the click of a 'save' key or sent to a friend a thousand miles away in a split second.
No she sees none of this, because it is a one way glass. I can see her and all of those women between her and me,
But she cannot see me.
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