They say she died of an asthma attack years before my birth. Though who exactly told me this is just beyond a firm recollection. Perhaps it was the one who replaced her and carried me.
Perhaps it was whispered by one of those entwined in the myth; who carry the blood of their quietly revered mother. They carry the secret well. The woman is still a mystery to me.
I sift through her great journeys of faded black and white. The sepia prints of the pyramids and the dusty streets of Jerusalem are beyond the realm of what I imagine possible for this family.
copyright 1996 RMIT