The Wren, the Wren

by Anne Enright

And I think that is something pain does to you. The pain makes you feel accused of making the pain up. Even the way you open your mouth to say, It hurts. You say, It is inside me. This pain. Please try to imagine how it feels. Though I am not imagining how it feels. That is the difference between us.

I did not feel the push of her ascent away from me in a blur of love, to love indistinguishable my palm pin-pricked, my earthbound heart of her love’s weight relieved. And, oh, my life, my daughter, the far away sky is cold and very blue.