d my reflection from all angles, o see someone different. But it  myself.

    My o kneead, I pus room. table paid lip service to t you could brus dressed  some bes ty. ts ss and blankets tigucked in and smooting. t of t  room, but  was w.

    Perplexed, I backed out of tood on the landing.

    t. te of passage. Staying omorroo say, in t nig go to a sitter. I stayed ed t it o make of it. I’d expected t I o fit tomatically, t I  my first glimpse of tined to be. I’d expected to give up its co ss secret, adult side. Instead, cloaked in my ne younger t o grow up?

    I toyed o Mrs. Robb’s. But no. tter place. I craher’s bed.

    t t one scase, as gray in daylig  my mot never ted flaps, bund a angled skein of Cmas-tree lig of tree angel. t time I mas. No. as t a kind of growing up?

    riggling out from under t tin. “  from under tin—it ure of Scottisoo tigo open. Absently I tried t gave ronger fingers t I felt a pang of s and various, differently sized pieces of paper. Forms, part printed, part ten. ure.

    For me, to see is to read. It  s. My parents’ marriage certificate. tificates. My oificate. Red print on cream paper. My fature. I refolded it carefully, put it o t. It ical. I ificates?

    t. Same fate of birt name.

    o me in t moment? Inside my o pieces and came back togetly, in one of tions the brain is capable of.

    I win.

    Ignoring tumult in my head, my curious fingers unfolded a sec-id piece of paper.

    A deatificate.