FORGOTTEN IDENTITY
Later, after the children were in bed and the house had settled into its nighttime quiet, the three of us sat in the sitting room with the tree lit in the corner and the particular, easy warmth of people who had nothing to prove to each other and a great deal still to say.
"Can I ask you both something?" I said.
"Always," they said, together.
"What do you think about when you think about us?" I asked. "Not what you feel. What you actually think. What's the thought, not the emotion."
It was the kind of question I asked less often now than in the earlier years, when the need to understand and articulate was more urgent. Now I asked it because I was genuinely curious, because the answers kept e
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