Supposing Time Was A Woman
an excerpt

PROLOGUE
A tiny event horizon. A dream. A whisper. A promise. A prophecy.

I have always imagined that in sitting down to write my memoir, as I believe we are all entrusted to do through some noblesse oblige, our final act of contrition; that I would find it coming as easy to me as pouring a cup of coffee or plugging in, or donning an old, comfortable sweater. After all this is my life, it is as familiar to me as my own hands, my heart, my far too numerous varicosities. It is my memory and the memory of a small splice of humanity before me.