How do the myths lay down road in a girl eating pound cake in the South
at her grandmother's table? There's the one about the goddess and her chariot
pulled by cats. The one about the man who wanders, the family left behind.
And then there's the weaving of the disparate stories into a founding myth.
Years wandering, the horse behind the gates. The underworld. What disparate
strands we all of us weave. Especially Bonnia of the sad and happy eyes.
How and when do we come up from underground? By which I mean myself.
By which I mean any daughter-wanderer, any hero-mother who stays behind, wondering.