![]() ![]() ![]() Together there, my two aunts, the virgin and the infant, kept each other safe. ![]() Frieda shifted and yawned into the earth. The child's sutured eyes and never-kissed lips greeted that 1950s winter sky, the color of heron wings, when her father-my grandfather-opened another hole in the mute earth, and laid his second unforgiving child's body to rest in her sister's slender, waiting arms. The infant, stillborn, was given a name anyway, but the wind has the syllables buried under its cool tongue. Somewhere in Mattawan, Michigan, there is an infant buried on top of a thirteen-year-old girl's grave. To tell you any of these stories, I have to tell you the first. We return to them, forever bound together. Indian ghosts and weeping willows borrowing our silence for their children's bones. A shroud of swamp moss holding the moon's hair together. My family reunion looks like death, deep in the night sky. ![]()
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