I have lived a short time on earth
but have soaked in the stories
and pictures of my ancestors.
Their lineage and heritage
rub into my skin
when I touch heirlooms —
My fingers brush the bedside table
my great-grandfather built.
I drink from my grandmother’s teacup,
read God’s Word from a 19th century Bible,
a distant aunt’s name inscribed on the front.
I lounge on my grandfather’s Lincoln-style bed,
an inheritance carried down from his people,
also my people. I look at photographs
of my great-grandmother holding me as a baby.
I can almost feel her arms under me,
smell her breath as she coos and smiles
into my infant face.
My story started before my birth into this life.
It began eons ago all the way back to infinite
beginnings before God created time, before
He spoke the world into existence.
When there was nothing, He knew me.
