Tuesday, December 7
ORIGIN STORY When my ancestors began the work of me, I was already old. I was only a child, I swam as an eel, I tallied on fingers, measuring everything. I learned everything, forgot everything, made nothing matter. Consequences gathered over my several springs, over and over, winter bit into the possibilities. My ancestors took a great bite of me, but on I swam, floating, a wiring of bones, reaching out to salvage. I was a little boat. I rowed the bright river. I ran aground, I washed ashore, I stood upright, I rushed into the mysteries of childhood. Who dreamed me? My ancestors wander just behind me. They harp: What's your name? Who calls you? No one calls me by the name I chose. The name I can't remember. It's the body that remembers, but the body never speaks. Tell us your name, plead my ancestors. We cannot live without you. My name? My name? I still don't know. To call myself this given name would be the same as lying. (Ginny Threefoot)