Until I wrote At the Narrow Waist of the World I did not understand the still-raw wound that I carried. I began the book by serendipity, with a scene I’d held in my memory full of texture and detail. I saw myself at the age of 5 or 6 carrying a white tray with hinged sides, hot milk in a Noritake cup, taking dinner to Mami who was very troubled at the time and was in bed.