Not doing enough when someone dies. Like not sending them off with food or clothing for a trip. Feeling appalled at how life goes on, heedless, impiously. Feeling ashamed and scrawny in my tennis whites, pampered and undeserving, as I looked at Mr. Ligget's downy translucent ears. They lived in the home of James Monroe, and we visited them dressed up at Xmas in revolutionary war garb. I thought they were ancient and from that time. No concept of time, just as I thought the mediaeval players at Elm Court meant that that place too hearkened back to that era. And I in the present, with all I'd been given, spoiled, with nothing heroic about me. Strange, the degree of shame and nervousness and inadequacy I felt toward so much growing up. Wonder how that has transmuted these days, if at all…
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