THERE ARE THINGS HERE I don’t want to see. I sort through the threads quickly, careful not to waste more than a glance at each set of memories, fears, longings, desires . . .
This woman deserves some shred of privacy—or that’s what I intend. But her threads have a weight to them, a kind of friction against my skin that pulls me in despite my fear.
Susan: her face unlined, her long braids dark and thick. She’s scolding the obstinate little girl this woman once was. Another time: teaching, her calloused hands guiding the small, soft ones of a child. Another time: scolding, then laughing, then fighting.
Another face appears. My father. Then an infant—a toddler—a child with twigs in her hair, and scraped knees, and a mutinous expression. Cadence.
Even later still, a journey like so many be
