““Other memories—from different times and places, from my old life—have weasled their way in alongside these. It's transfiguration, the slippery nature of thought. Wine turns to blood and wafer to body, and table legs to church spires white and stark against the summer sky—and the spiderwebs in the old blueberry bushes behind my childhood home in Newport, draped across the branches like fine gray lace—the spare pleasure of a boiled egg and bread, eaten alone for dinner. All of that is the table, too.””
