THE MYTH

When the myth gave birth to me, I did not know she was the myth. Every night, she kissed my plum bruises and fed me cakes soaked in honey and rosewater, then tucked me into bed. One night, the myth did not come. I searched every room of the house, but they were all empty. When I asked my father where the myth was, he laughed, and said, who? The closets were bare. The kitchen was filled with fleas. My plum bruises grew ripe enough to eat. I ate them and left town, searching for the myth. Everyone I met seemed to recognize the myth. They showed me their rotting skin and breathed honey on my tongue. But no one could tell me where the myth had gone. Years passed, and finally, on my deathbed, I saw the myth again, smiling, her hand outstretched towards me, pressing a cake to my lips. Where have you been, I asked the myth. She didn’t answer. Still, I reached out. We held hands for a long time. Filled with doubt, I closed my eyes.