I Know This Much Is True

by Wally Lamb

You are merely giving me a tour of the museum.” “The museum? . . . I don’t follow you.” “Your museum of pain. Your sanctuary of justifiable indignation.” “I, uh . . .” “We all superintend such a place, I suppose,” she said, “although some of us are more painstaking curators than others. That is the category in which I would certainly put you, Dominick. You are a meticulous steward of the pain and injustices people have visited upon you. Or, if you prefer, we could call you a scrupulous coroner.”

“Wequonnocs pray to roundness,” he said. “Wholeness. The cycles of the moon, the seasons. We thank the Great Creator for the new life and for the life it sprang from. The past and the future, cinched together. The roundness of things.”