Continuous Family Ownership

Jenn Marie Nunes

The ocean receded. We are alone in the woods. The trail is longer

than anyone thought. Still

the sun comes down pearly dappled and the creek bed is mossy,

the water is clear.

I wear a pair of my father’s old running shorts. She carries the

backpack but I lead the way. A

stand of birch trees. Broken beer bottles and a white plastic cutting

board. Forget the hero quest.

Forget heroes. We tie our own knots. I scrutinize her work.

We have the same hands. Like

Grandma said, those Pollack knuckles. I scrutinize my work. Here are

our hands. A stand

of birch trees obscured by doubling flesh. Her skin flushed and damp.

Here we are at the tower

of obvious allusion. No one is there to let down her hair. Broken beer

bottles. Fingers slide in

and out. Passed down for generations. Why are we both afraid to

mark our own way? A tree falls

but no one hears her. We share the last of the water. By the time we

climb back to the gravel path

we are sweaty and hungry and mean. Three generations of women

alone. I am no great beauty

she says. All of these gifts. Sometimes in our blood and sometimes in

our hands.