I could have been born in a taxi speeding in at the last minute through Maldon’s volcanic hills, chasing history and voices— so much gone like the gold; and, a mini-volcano-in-waiting: me, setting the pace as it were— my mother concentrating, contractions, such raw minutes … I wasn’t ready yet to be born; too soon for she and I to meet face to face, hold a real conversation, me with my strange eye on everything. Hang on, I thought, is this journey likely to be all it’s cracked up to be— my mother wanting me to get…
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