Dorothea,
I was named for you.
Family lore has it you stole pants from your uncle, snuck out of the house at 4am and went off to climb a mountain. You taught your four sons to love the land like you did, four little goats with skis strapped to their backs. You loved squirrels. You died years before I was born, but the puppet theatre you made was at each of my first six birthday parties, your youngest son behind the curtain, acting out the stories you wrote.
From you, and from him, I got my tongue, my hands, my need for the weight of books.
1 comment:
and that facial expression of thoughtfulness.
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