I have become the stories that my parents told each other, nervous, excited, looking at the sky.
I am the stories that friends have woven and imagined, each new beginning another tale.
One day, one day, I will be the stories that my children more or less remember or in their own ages tell their own.
I was, will be, and am those stories.

Madeleine remembers

Madeleine licked, crunched, swallowed an iced birthday biscuit. And another. Father had said no cake so she sat alone and ate birthday biscuits. The sweet licking, the soft crunching, the gritty swallowing, she loved it, over, over and over. Until later. Then no more iced biscuits for ever. She remembers.