There are often moments within my ossified adult days when my children startle me, not with some precocious gem of naive genius (today’s was “Daddy, is a dwarf planet full of dwarves) but rather by the fact of their existence. A few years back I walked home from nursery with my first daughter hoisted onto my shoulders. I could hear her voice piping out just above my head but l could only see the a leg either side of me. It sounded as if the voice was coming from within rather than without and I silently asked the voice, ”Where did you come from?“ and the question tolled out from within like a temple bell. As I kissed her forehead at bedtime tonight, I asked more silent questions, “Who are you now? Who will you become? Where have all the little old-yous gone? As I hugged her it didn’t feel like I was hugging one person, it felt like hugging one bead in a chain of people. After turning out the light and tip-toeing out, I wondered if I still carried any fragments of the selves that I once was a prayed to my future selves to carry this future fractured-shard-to-be with care.

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