I go away and sit on the floor beneath our table. I hug my knees and I rock and rock. And then I know what has made me slip and fall in the streets. I’m sticky with blood.
I rock now, hugging my shaking knees in the shade of Jin’s garden, beneath his beautiful arches, my book tight against my chest. A book must contain the truth. We are supposed to write the truth, for no one to see but ourselves. But how easily that truth can be twisted. Bend a little here, omit a little there, make yourself into the person you wish you were instead of the person you are. How easy to cut the truth away, to throw it in a fire, open your eyes, and have the whole world remember nothing of who you are. Nothing of what you’ve done. When you will not remember who you are or what you’ve done. My father lives on the other side of Canaan now, with Lydia the Weaver. He has two children, girls, and passes me in the street without a second glance. He got what he wanted and got rid of what he didn’t. What a victimless crime. Like everything before the Forgetting. Guiltless. Forgotten. Unless you can remember.
Don’t forget, Gray the Glassblower’s son has said to me. Twice.
And he’s said it to the only person in Canaan who never has.