The next morning was Sunday. Donald called Sarah. He said he'd like to see her. They met in Central Park before noon and watched the exciting angle of sunlight through the trees.
"Do you remember your childhood?" he asked.
"Yes," she laughed. He was good at making her laugh without telling jokes. "Don't you?"
"No. Hardly anything at all."
"I couldn't imagine that. I have so many memories. I mean, I have the whole story of my childhood with me, as clear as day. I remember every sensation. In fact, sometimes I think it slows me down, holding on to so much."
"Maybe it does, but it must be like a treasure, a treasure that you're carrying around."
"Yeah, it's beautiful. Sometimes it just takes me over, like a beautiful sunset or something... You remember some things. Don't you remember every girl you've ever loved?" She smiled and he smiled, too, but it wasn't pure joy this time. He looked vulnerable, and Sarah's heart made a note of this. There was no such note registered for Bob.
"Not all of them," he said, "but most. There weren't many."
Sarah had a startling thought. The childhood of Jesus was never recorded. What could it possibly be like for a pure heart to be an adolescent? Wasn't impurity the point? Every day must have been a Gethsamene. She realized she was staring into space and started talking to cover it up, which gave her this delightful feeling that she was improvising. What had Bob said?
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