Of the Knowledge of Good and Evil
I think our passage cannot be more plain to eyes not earthly; and I think they smile in ways which need no lips, when we attain our little heights of thought, and pause, beguiled by glimpses of far brighter realms beyond. Like children in strange countryside, we cling together, all-confiding, close and fond, and with the grace of youth and joy we fling our baubles—pealing laughter, glances clear and heady, sweet air-kisses born of souls which meet from shining eyes. For here and now we can be lavish—time’s grim tolls have not yet wrecked our readiness to give ourselves without reserve. Nevertheless, we have two ways to go, and each must live the call which on each heart has been impressed, and this must be the end of innocence —or rather, death of childlike liberty. A child shrinks from a child in self-defense! I cannot help but take it bitterly until you speak about the road you’ll take, and I can see its vistas in your eyes. How could you not all else wholly forsake for that? (And when will I learn to be wise?)
—Amanda Glass
Amanda Glass is a 1999 graduate of the Franciscan University of
Steubenville.
