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Gohan, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. G-oh-han: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. G-oh-han. Go, he was plain Go, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. He was Goha in slacks. He was Son Gohan at school. He was Gohey on the gilded line. But in my arms he was always Gohan. Did he have a precursor? He did, indeed he did. In point of fact, there might have been no Gohan at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial boy-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Gohan was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.
