Bone Country

The next night, I dreamt I was in a huge forest and the branches of the trees were like broken arms, the sunlight throwing their shadows on the forest floor. I saw nothing but the green air of the trees. I heard nothing but the low moan of the wind. Finally, from the edge of the woods, came a soft sound: the voice of my grandmother—my mother’s mother, the one who died before I was born. She was singing in a language that even the trees could understand. She was singing and calling my name. Telling me that I was in my bone country: where my mother and father could not follow, where only my heart would know the map.