Turn your head and squint at the stories you’ve been told and you may see the traces. Delicate razor-thin reminders. Forgotten runes etched deep into memory. Ghostly echoes inherited through the ages.

We know what we do not remember, what we have disregarded until the capacity to see is lost. But it is still there, written on the heart, carved into deepest consciousness, flowing under skin.

It is still there to read, in the right light.

Truth did not germinate once upon a time. It was no exception, no break with the ordinary. It emanates from all time and all places. It is matrix and context. It is always.

We haven’t always needed a creator to understand ourselves. Haven’t demanded happy endings arrested in infancy or painted bittersweet beginnings, birth shrouded in shades of grey.

The oldest tales do not follow the straight path from here to there. Origin stories are circular, perpetual, an unfolding and a being. No exhalation that is not preceded by an indrawn breath.

We used to know our story. We know this because we can still read the relics.

In the right kind of light…

©Elizabeth Anker 2022