Sometimes memories feel like myths. like the time i ran away. like Ancestors on the “hanging tree”. IDR what everyone else called it....but I remember the bottles clankin' in the wind. That sounds too beautiful for here. i weep. Or the time, under the other willow tree, at a much worse place, i slipped and smashed Gator eggs. & the bad Michael “saved” me from the sad momma. i din’t cry then. Or i don’t remember. Or the time that the other Michael, the good first one, Michael the Archangel, came to my bedroom, not sleeping, and told me daddy was/had been in prison. When Momma got home from Revival, i told her. She cried and hugged me and we stayed up even later, eating crackers. She said, don’t tell Sister. i was 4. i told Sister.

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