From a Travel to a Stone


The ramblings of a dead madwoman had been the lullabies my mother sang to me as a child. But I had known they spurred my father's feet to carry him from home when I was little more than a babe. I had known he believed in those words.

I could not say then that I did. And there was no urgency to it. My father was gone, yes, but I had a peaceful life. I did not mind the tales of travels, but I did not seek that road.

And then my mother fell ill, and for a simple wish I set off in search of a man I only knew through tales and a lullaby whose words that had long since branded themselves into my mind.