In the story that plays in my head, my mother tells me stories about me.
“Once upon a time there was a little girl named Ani,” she whispers, “who didn’t like to fall asleep. At night she would lie on the sheepskin and her mother would draw sentences on her back and Ani would try to guess what they said.”
I have lifted my nightshirt so I can feel her tracings on my bare skin. I feel a circle and guess. “The sun?”
Silence.
“The moon?”
“Yes.”
I feel two lines and murmur, “A road?”
More lines.
“A ladder?”
Swirls.
“Oh! A tree. The moon was shining on a tree.”
“Yes.”
In the story that plays in my head, my mother tells me stories that come true.
“That night,” she whispers, “a strong wind blew.”
Outside our dwelling the trees churn their branches, rustle their leaves.
“So long was the wind’s reach, Ani felt it even as she lay inside.”
A breeze stirs my hair, gentle as my mother’s breath.
“So long was the wind’s reach, it even blew the candle out.”
Behind closed lids, the room grows darker.
“This wind came from so far away, it sang in a different tongue.”
And as I drift, my cheek upon the sheepskin, a lullaby comes, sung in the voice that is most familiar to me, in a language I do not know.
How sweet this belief that the world acts in accordance with my mother’s stories. As if letting itself be invented by them.