This is my reading now of what happened then. Or rather, my memory now of my reading then of what happened at the time. When we are young we invent different futures. Did you leave me because of me? When we are old we invent different pasts. No, I left you because of us. Life isn’t just addition and subtraction, there’s also the accumulation, the multiplication of loss, of failure. There is the difference between addition and increase. Memory is what we thought we’d forgotten. I had a swathe of my past to evaluate. With nothing but remorse for company. I thought I could overcome contempt and turn remorse back into guilt, then be forgiven. History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation. Memory is what we thought we’d forgotten. Memory is what we thought we’d forgotten. Memory is what we thought we’d forgotten. This is my reading now of what happened then. Or rather, my memory now of my reading then of what was happening at the time. One day this may be answered in a splendid exegesis.