The very first thing she could recallwas an improvised merry-go-round,a swarm of firefliesspinning over her cradle. The stream burbledfrom the forest depths,shaking its rattle of white pebbles. By the age of three,she no longer needed a footstoolto peek over the windowsill. In her teens,she would blush at the treetops,dense and ringleted like a man’s chest hair. Now,as an old woman with aching knees,she seldom thinks of taking a walk.