1.In my first childhood homeon the reserve, where I lived withmy brother, the forest was visiblefrom a small window in the kitchen.I imagine my father looked out that windowso as to escape himself. He would give us upafter about one year. I’m inclined to thinkof that year as a landscape paintingthat got repainted until all of it becamea blur of green. I get it now—my childhoodis an image of a forest someone elsewas supposed to know by heart. 2.What I don’t knowabout my childhooddoesn’t destroy me.The self emerges inthe absence of betterinformation. A nativechildhood is the colourof doubt. The colour ofdoubt is blue. Accordingto plant scientists, bluerarely occurs organicallyin nature. When I writeabout my parents in theirtwenties, it is as thoughI am writing about ghosts.Can two ghosts produceanything other than fadedmemories? As a kid,I had so much hopeI tried to sell it.I now understand thathope cannot be bought;it is passed around,like cutlery. Hope is notabstract. It is solid, andunbearable. It wounds. 3.I used to think that the first tragedy of my lifewas that I wasn’t raised by my parents.These days, I suspect that all children comefrom the same country of dreaming. I didn’tso much leave as escape. My impulse wasto break open this poem. Like childhood.To break something in order to repair it.To touch all of the earth in order to thinkabout something else. I’ve forgiven everyone.It’s autumn already. So many leaves have fallen—I have to go out and kiss each one.