From the Bookshelf of Around the World in 80 Books…

She goes from crawling to walking on her wobbly legs. She watches everything we do with those startling eyes. She can speak only a few words, but she points with her tiny finger at every new thing that catches her eye - the flowers, the birds above, a tiny spot on the linoleum. She is like a spy in our world, watching and seeing everything. I feel as if she understands everything. But she gives no information about where she comes from, the secret place she has left. We teach her about our wo

She goes from crawling to walking on her wobbly legs. She watches everything we do with those startling eyes. She can speak only a few words, but she points with her tiny finger at every new thing that catches her eye - the flowers, the birds above, a tiny spot on the linoleum. She is like a spy in our world, watching and seeing everything. I feel as if she understands everything. But she gives no information about where she comes from, the secret place she has left. We teach her about our world, thinking it important, thinking ourselves important. But the mystery is, where did she come from? She can't tell us.

In these early days I wonder if it is possible to be heartbroken with happiness. Yes, a cliche, but in the cavity of my chest, in the embrace of my ribs, my heart unfurls. There had been a whorled shell around it, like a ripple-edged, tightly closed clam. My heart had been pearl in the center of it. He had slid a knifepoint into a crevice and prized with all his strength, and this covering had cracked open. The heart muscle, freed now, expands and fills as if with tide-pulled liquid. The sound of his voice, the silk of his skin - these are the sum of my treasure. I calibrate my days around his presence, I weave my life around him. This is what he does for me: he breaks my heart with happiness.