Ours was not the kind of family whose fortunes & failures become legendary, whose sons' or patriarchs' indulgences were bought by placing bets with cattle or houses as guarantee; whose daughters & wives were beautiful but only in the way a rumor of smoke remains in some towns, long after they've burned to cinders— In the ruins, there was no general still dazed from the war, dictating orders in his crumpled uniform the color of putty, from inside the fortress of a claw-footed tub. We were the kind who quietly changed the chamberpots in the morning, or collected rain- water in empty oil pails. We were the kind sent with a letter and instructions to wait for a reply; the ones trusted to keep our eyes & mouths shut as bushes in the garden trembled with a volley of violent thrusts. We aired the linens & straightened the books, taking care there were at least two other witnesses in the room. The measure of our ambition was to be no larger than the present, no clearer than the past. The future was time, & time was for the gods; & therefore unseemly for our further concern. We saw the ways in which names could be let loose: they snaked their way across oceans, tasked to find the one root from which they first sprang, or broke. It is believed the wind once knew our names at the coast's edge. Then boats came, baptizing us in their wake.