A boy thought of Ancestors. He thought of an old village he had never seen, a language he had never heard. He thought of fires and hunts and births and gods. He thought of what home would have meant.
A boy thought, “I have no Ancestors.”
A boy thought, “I have television and plastic toys and shopping centers. I have songs on the radio that are dumb, played over and over, songs I don’t want to hear, songs made by nobody I know. I have a broken family. I have a mother at war with a father. I have parents and grandparents who do not understand each other. I have aunts and uncles and cousins far away and getting farther away, going to other cities for this reason and that reason.”
The boy wished for Ancestors, for their gods and their songs, for a village with elders and roots in the earth.
And the boy’s wish opened a book.