The purse. Put your face right down close to it, Ducks, right down close. Then you’ll see.
At first I had seen a confusing agglomeration of angled shapes thrusting toward me, but then they resolved into the skyscrapers of a city in miniature, and I was gazing down through those buildings into a maze of busy streets. Gazing down and then falling down, not with fear but with exhilaration, swooping between those glittering towers, flying as sometimes I had flown in good dreams. The city was no longer a miniature; it was real and vast, borderless, reaching to infinity, filled with gorgeous and mysterious light. I flew low, near street level, along avenue after avenue alive with busy people, and I began to realize that the mysterious light came from them, that it came from me, too, that we were the people of the city and the light of the city, flickering like endless tiers of candles in endless cups. And suddenly I saw the city in time, backward to its origins and forward through centuries, as it had been and as it would be, all existing now; and in every age, those ancient and those of the future, the lovely light did shine, our light.
What a purse.
I’ve thought often about what she showed me there on the porch steps of my grandfather’s house. Now that I’ve lived long enough, I understand the essence of it, but I don’t understand it entirely. No sweat. What matters is the day at hand and what we do with it, one day at a time, some butter-side-down days, some butter-side-up. And what should we do with the day? What direction is the one to take, which choice wrong? When I’m confused, I recall what she said that day, and I can hear her voice, remembered as clearly as I remember any music I’ve ever heard. No matter what happens, disaster piled on calamity, no matter what, everything will be okay in the long run.