A miscellaneous relative that I've never met sent me an email offering a cd copy of the taped memories of someone--the brother of my great grandfather, perhaps? I don't know. The email sender is a vague connection on my mother's side, which is a side of my family that I'm fuzzy on. She has appointed herself historian and sends out regular emails regarding birthdays of folks that I've never heard of, which is good, I suppose, except that occasionally I feel buried under the weight of all this blood I'm supposed to find significant.
I accepted, of course. I'm obsessed with all of this--with you, with me, with our fingerprints and the spaces between us, with where we're going, where we've been, and how we tell our stories on the way there and back. My mother's family has never been one to tell stories, but I know the stories are there and that they're running through my veins.
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