Turns out I am drawn to places to which I am not a member. Part of me wants to experience almost anything, but when the other part tags along and finds out these places come with rules and one community fireplace, both parts of me step back.
I don’t know how to warm my hands at a such a fire.
And how would it have been had I raised my Yes Hand for the swoonable cowboy who showed me his prize saddle way back in the day? The barn and the fields, knowing what the crow means when it caws: all that would define my life now, if only . . .
But so far most of what I’ve said and done has involved my No Hand.
What I think I know for sure is how to tell a story. It’s easy: stand outside the fire’s reach and watch what others do. Get too involved, you lose the story. Stay back—maybe in the highest reaches of the auction house or the mountain with its forests—and the story will find you and keep you company for a little bit before you get a chance to ask: Which hand is the false one.