Thousand: Three Hundred Sixty-Five

don’t think I was left to slump into unconsciousness there in the street, blood pooling around my suddenly open wrist. But there are things I do not remember. Perhaps I died. I do know that when I could, I left that place behind. I should have stayed and showed them a miracle? I hid my miracle in a bag, like some Indian renunciates. You’ve seen them, haven’t you? They walk about with a lightweight cloth bag cinched constantly over one hand and make do in life as though they had one hand only. I do remember the pain as the