Whenever someone says that history is a lie, I think about the scar that runs the length of my scalp; I think about the crow who died in my hand. I think about the time that I let the screen door slam and pinched my sister's index finger flat.
History, they say, is written by the victor and I think of bones stripped of all flesh - of my tiny pink feet scalded in the bath.
Whenever someone says that history is a lie, I think of trees that have fallen and the stumps that remain and I think about the animals who've been pressed into stone and I think about the grasshopper who someone once told me she'd seen take a breath.
History, I've been told, is a fiction - a device - and I think about the money lavished on skylines and I think of the people who starve in their shadows. I think of the music that has sounded and dispersed. I think of an elk skin marked with blackberry ink. I think of a cave adorned in animal dreams.
And whenever someone says that history is a lie I think of the moment my daughter was conceived. I think of the dogs who've slept on my bed. I think of the oceans and all that has sunk and sits waiting for rescue on their gathering floors.