Wishbone

by Julie Marie Wade

"For a long time, everything only happened to other people," Julie Wade writes. Or so she thought. She records her falls. The "stunned body, the purloined speech" she experiences after crashing to the ground from a swing. The sensation of slipping from the platform saddle atop a circus elephant, sliding "flat as a penny against his wrinkled skin, rattling the bones of my ribs." The shame and uncertainty of being spilled from the security of parental love. And, finally, triumphantly, the felix culpa, the fortunate fall, of love. Juxtaposed against the fragmentary structure of the memoir,...