THERE IS a loneliness that can be rocked. Arms crossed, knees drawn up; holding, holding on,this motion, unlike a ship's, smooths and contains the rocker. It's an inside kind — wrapped tightlike skin.

　　Then there is a loneliness that roams. No rocking can hold it down. It is alive, on its own. A dryand spreading thing that makes the sound of one's own feet going seem to come from a far-offplace. Everybody knew what she was called, but nobody anywhere knew her name.

　　Disremembered and unaccounted for, she cannot be lost because no one is looking for her, andeven if they were, how can they call her if they don't know her name? Although she has claim, sheis not claimed. In the place where long grass opens, the girl who waited to be loved and cry shameerupts into her separate parts, to make it easy for the chewing laughter to swallow her all away.

　　It was not a story to pass on.

　　They forgot her like a bad dream. After they made up their tales,shaped and decorated them, those that saw her that day on the porch quickly and deliberatelyforgot her. It took longer for those who had spoken to her, lived with her, fallen in love with her, toforget, until they realized they couldn't remember or repeat a single thing she said, and began tobelieve that, other than what they themselves were thinking, she hadn't said anything at all. So, inthe end, they forgot her too. Remembering seemed unwise. They never knew where or why shecrouche............