In Worcester,
Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consueloto keep her dentist's appointmentand sat and waited for herin the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got darkearly.
The waiting roomwas full of grown-up people,arctics and overcoats,lamps and magazines.
My aunt was insidewhat seemed like a long timeand while I waited and readthe National Geographic(I could read) and carefullystudied the photographs:the inside of a volcano,black, and full of ashes;then it was spilling overin rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnsondressed in riding breeches,laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole "Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed headswound round and round with string;black, naked women with neckswound round and round with wirelike the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,came an oh! of pain—Aunt Consuelo's voice—not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;even then I knew she wasa foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,but wasn't. What took mecompletely by surprisewas that it was me:my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at allI was my foolish aunt,
I—we—were falling, falling,our eyes glued to the coverof the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three daysand you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stopthe sensation of falling offthe round, turning cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,you are an Elizabeth,you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to lookto see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance—I couldn't look any higher—at shadowy gray knees,trousers and skirts and bootsand different pairs of handslying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing strangerhad ever happened, that nothingstranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,or me, or anyone?
What similaritiesboots, hands, the family voiceI felt in my throat, or eventhe National Geographicand those awful hanging breastsheld us all togetheror made us all just one?
How I didn't know anyword for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,like them, and overheara cry of pain that could havegot loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was brightand too hot. It was slidingbeneath a big black wave,another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,in Worcester,
Massachusetts,were night and slush and cold,and it was still the fifthof February, 1918.
