I only have stories of her feet pounding on naked earth, of her blinded children running through a jungle humid with bullets—this history draws these words from hidden shades of red caged within my breathing body. Blood is an almost-miracle that way, how it stretches across centuries, oceans even, to fill the empty seats at our tables, reverses the forward passing of time, chasm of memory, to stare back at us from inside cracking mirrors, to help us take that first step. Then the second. Then the third.
Image Credits: sunshinecity