She walks slowly through her house here in New Hampshire, lightly touching her way along walls and running her hands over knickknacks, books, the drift of a grown child's belongings and castoffs.
I owe her my existence three times. The first was when she saved herself.
Harry Avalon had wanted to be buried in the circus cemetery next to the original Avalon, his uncle, so she sent him back with his brothers.
I owe my existence, the second time then, to the two of them and the hospital that brought them together.
Once my father and mother married, they moved onto the old farm he had inherited but didn't care much for.
I was seven the year the house caught fire, probably from standing ash.
