The old woman deported to the West Indies could swear to God she had seen a basket floating away after the storm. She had tried to rescue it, but the ocean had been too strong. And she is the one who, that day, named me after the first one in my lineage. For days, he steals away with his great grandson to escape the eavesdroppers. They talk until his mouth is too dry.
Time flies by.
His memory came back the instant he looked into the eyes of his only heir. But not for long. You, too, must fill your head with words the south winds might blow away. Words so old that only the oldest voices can utter them without mangling them. Away from the caravan of carts, the old man kneaded his memory and imagination the way a baker kneads his dough.