0015 Reading A Short Story Of Whose Life

and since they say you're the greatest American short story writer, I'm reading the one of yours you chose yourself and as I'm reading I become two people sitting here: there's the cynical grown-up, enjoying it yes but all the time - how's he setting it up, what's he making us feel? - now he's slipping in something a little out of kilter; now it's all going wrong for the guy - hero, villain? now it's coming good again, how's he going to avoid ending in fairyland or in total disaster? and there's the little person sitting in their tiny warm pajamas, soft, cosy, comforting, laundered with more love than he (or she) 's yet earned in their short life, knowing all this tale from many repetitions but loving this repeated game - suppose that this time, just this once, it's going to end diff'rently...? so only if I listen ev'ry moment can I make it come out happily this time.. and when it ends - aah - like it should - my tiny toes wiggling with delight - and they live happily ever after... is this the bliss I've not yet earned, but what I'm due - the innocence with which I'm born, and which entitles me to know that this is me; or am I being told, this is the tale which I must earn with life? that these are love's laws for me to keep?