The Art of Inheriting Secrets

by Barbara O'Neal

“Thanks,” I said, but he was already heading for the truck, moving in that loose-limbed way some tall men have, as if there were no actual bones, only muscles and grace.

“You can’t cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water,” he said.

“‘I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times, in life after life, in age after age forever.’ That’s what this is, you and me.”