In Worcester, Massachusetts,I went with Aunt Consueloto keep her dentist's appointmentand sat and waited for herin the dentist's waiting room.It was winter. It got darkearly. The waiting roomwas full of grown-up people,arctics and overcoats,lamps and magazines.My aunt was insidewhat seemed like a long timeand while I waited I readthe National Geographic (I could read) and carefully studied the photographs:the inside of a volcano,black, and full of ashes;then it was spilling overin rivulets of fire.Osa and Martin Johnson dressed in riding breeches,laced boots, and pith helmets.A dead man slung on a pole--"Long Pig," the caption said.Babies with pointed headswound round and round with string;black, naked women with neckswound round and round with wirelike the necks of light bulbs.Their breasts were horrifying.I read it right straight through.I was too shy to stop.And then I looked at the cover:the yellow margins, the date.Suddenly, from inside,came an oh! of pain--Aunt Consuelo's voice--not very loud or long.I wasn't at all surprised;even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman.I might have been embarrassed,but wasn't.  What took mecompletely by surprisewas that it was me:my voice, in my mouth.Without thinking at allI was my foolish aunt,I--we--were falling, falling,our eyes glued to the coverof the National Geographic,February, 1918.I said to myself: three daysand you'll be seven years old.I was saying it to stopthe sensation of falling offthe round, turning world.into cold, blue-black space.But I felt: you are an I,you are an Elizabeth,you are one of them.Why should you be one, too?I scarcely dared to lookto see what it was I was.I gave a sidelong glance--I couldn't look any higher--at shadowy gray knees,trousers and skirts and bootsand different pairs of handslying under the lamps.I knew that nothing strangerhad ever happened, that nothingstranger could ever happen.Why should I be my aunt,or me, or anyone?What similarities--boots, hands, the family voiceI felt in my throat, or eventhe National Geographicand those awful hanging breasts--held us all togetheror made us all just one?How--I didn't know anyword for it--how "unlikely". . .How had I come to be here,like them, and overheara cry of pain that could havegot loud and worse but hadn't?The waiting room was brightand too hot. It was slidingbeneath a big black wave,another, and another.Then I was back in it.The War was on. Outside,in Worcester, Massachusetts,were night and slush and cold,and it was still the fifth of February, 1918.