fe plunged in my heart." She said to me,
"Kwei-li, thou art not a child, thou art a woman. Of what worth that
clothing lying in that box of camphor-wood? Does it bring back thy
son? Some day thou wilt open it, and there will be nothing but dust
which will reproach thee. Get them and give them to this child which
has come to us out of the night."

I went to the box and opened it, and they lay there, the little things
that had touched his tiny body. I gave them, the trousers of purple,
the jackets of red, the embroidered shoes, the caps with the many
Buddhas. I gave them all to the begger child.

I am,
Thy Wife.

38
I am reproached because I will not go to the temple. It is filled with the
sounds of chanting which comes to me faintly as I lie upon the
terrace. There are women there, happy women, with their babies in
their arms, while mine are empty. There are others there in sorrow,
laying their offerings at the feet of Kwan-yin. They do not know that
she does not feel, nor care, for womankind. She sits upon her lotus
throne and laughs at mothers in despair. How can she feel, how can
she know, that thing of gilded wood and plaster?

I stay upon my terrace, I live alone within my court of silent dreams.
For me there are no Gods.

39
They have brought to me from the market-place a book of a new God.
I would not read it. I said, "There are too many Gods-- why add a new
one? I have no candles or incense to lay before an image." But-- I
read and saw within its pages that He gave rest and love and peace.
Peace-- what the holy man desired, the end of all things-- peace. And
I, I do not want to lose the gift of memory; I want remembrance, but I
want it without pain.

The cherry-blossoms have bloomed and passed away. They lingered
but a moment's space, and, like my dream of spring, they died. But,
passing, they have left behind the knowledge that we'll see them once
again. There must be something, somewhere, to speak to despairing
mothers and say, "Weep not! You will see your own again."

I do not want a God of temples. I have cried my prayers to Kwan-yin,
and they have come back to me like echoes from a deadened wall. I
want a God to come to me at night-time, when I am lying lonely,
wide-eyed, staring into darkness, with all my body aching for the
touch of tiny hands. I want that God who says, "I give thee Peace," to
stand close by my pillow and touch my wearied eyelids and bring me
rest.

I have been dead-- enc