. . .

And if her mother had been struck dumb or timeless by this, unable to respond, able only to flutter her fingers against Emily’s, to share the moment, then the first rush of it would have passed and Emily would have gone on in a soft, low, urgent voice:

“How can this be happening, mother? Why is my spirit lifting? Whither fled my breath? Whither the walls I had built around myself? They are crumbling. Whither the little limitations that I had used to bound my world? They’re falling down. I am open suddenly to something magical and something awful, and suddenly I know that it is OK, that it is OK that I will live and breathe and suffer and struggle and fight and eventually I will die, probably screaming, probably even screaming because a magical jaguar has fallen onto my back, because, because, I do not know, I cannot say, I do not know how it can possibly be all right, how such terrible and burdensome and awful things can be all right, only, they are —

“Because it is there.”

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