The first forty feet were ledge and root and the kind of climbing a child could do, and that was the worst stretch, because it left room in my head.
The gorge did not want the room left empty. Every handhold came with its ghost. Wind ripping past my ears on the way down, the borrowed dress tearing loose at last, one thought going down with me, I never even found out who my mother was, and now here was her letter pressing my skin with every reach, ink she'd touched, and I climbed down into the place that took me with her name against my heart and I want to tell you it helped. Some of the time it helped. The rest of the time the river below said what it says, and my hands did their work far away from me, and I went down the wall of my own grave one hold at a time because the only way home r
