Copied and Pasted.

Family Reunion The divorced mother and her divorcing
daughter. The about-to-be ex-son-in-law
and the ex-husband's adopted son.
The divorcing daughter's child, who is
the step-nephew of the ex-husband's
adopted son. Everyone cordial:
the ex-husband's second wife
friendly to the first wife, warm
to the divorcing daughter's child's
great-grandmother, who was herself
long ago divorced. Everyone
grown used to the idea of divorce
Almost everyone has separated from the landscape of childhood. Collections of people in cities are divorced from clean air and stars. Toddlers in day care are parted from working parents, schoolchildren from the assumption of unbloodied daylong safety. Old people die apart from all they've gathered over time, and in strange beds. Adults grow estranged from a God evidently divorced from history; most are cut off from their own histories, each of which waits like a child left at day care. What if you turned back for a moment and put your arms around yours? Yes, you might be late for work; no, your history doesn't smell sweet like a toddler's head. But look at those small round wrists, that short-legged, comical walk. Caress your history—who else will? Promise to come back later. Pay attention when it asks you simple questions: Where are we going? Is it scary? What happened? Can I have more now? Who is that?