Each morning Latiaran carried a *seed of fire* from her nun*s cell to a nearby forge. One morning the smith complimented her on her beautiful feet. She blushed and looked down. As she did, her apron caught fire. Though her clothes burned, she remained unharmed. Then she sank into the ground under a heart-shaped rock and was not heard from again. From my place in the ground under a heart-shaped rock, I dedicate this very special page to my complicated Irish father, who played with fire and got burned, to my lost and undone Mother and to her father, John Trimble Hale, who took from all of us a pearl of great price. The rest is silence. back home next page |
