Зима тревоги нашей
Chapter 8
Itwaslivingbuthadnoheadortail,norbeginningorend.Thepolishedstonewasnotslicktothetouchbutslightlytackylikeflesh,anditwasalwayswarmtothetouch.Youcouldseeintoitandyetnotthroughit.IguesssomeoldseamanofmybloodhadbroughtitbackfromChina.Itwasmagic—goodtosee,totouch,torubagainstyourcheekortocaresswithyourfingers.Thisstrangeandmagicmoundlivedintheglasscabinet.AschildandboyandmanIwasallowedtotouchit,tohandleit,butnevertocarryitaway.Anditscolorandconvolutionsandtexturechangedasmyneedschanged.OnceIsupposeditwasabreast,tomeasaboyitbecameyoni,inflamedandaching.Perhapslateritevolvedtobrainorevenenigma,theheadless,endless,movingthing—thequestionwhichiswholewithinitself,needingnoanswertodestroyit,nobeginningorendtolimitit.
Theglasscasehadabrasslockfromcolonialtimesandasquarebrasskey,alwaysinthelock.
Mysleepingdaughterhadthemagicmoundinherhands,caressingitwithherfingers,pettingitasthoughitwerealive.Shepresseditagainstherunformedbreast,placeditonhercheekbelowherear,nuzzleditlikeasucklingpuppy,andshehummedalowsonglikeamoanofpleasureandoflonging.Therewasdestructioninher.Ihadbeenafraidatfirstthatshemightwanttocrashittobitsorhideitaway,butnowIsawthatitwasmother,lover,child,inherhands.
IwonderedhowImightawakenherwithoutfright.
