Ancestral Memory

Words by Elisabeth Contreras-Moran
Art by Tiffany Moreno

Humans start forming memories when they are 2 to 2½ years old, child development researchers currently tell us. But what of children whose ancestors whisper to them in the low light? Stories of generations of genes mixed to make them. Especially to make Them. Spanish. English. Mija. Little one. A mama and a dad. Brown and white. Abuelos and grandparents. Dark and light. Hands, gentle and graceful, reaching to hold them.
Voices lulling them to sleep, snippets of song. Soft sound of trucks on a stony thoroughfare outside. Headlights lighting up the wall near the wooden chair creating a choreography of chroma. Rocked in that chair to a tempo of tenderness. At the open window, breezes lazily carry the secrets of blue mountain creatures and bounce the curtains into a ballet of plies and pirouettes. Young hands, painted nails chipped at the edges. Men’s hands, calloused, squared and squat. Old hands, long-fingered, leathery and papery too. All the shades of brown and white in those hands Holding. Whispering. Singing. Rocking. Repeated rhythms. Breaths in and out. Bloodlines flowing. Maybe they really aren’t memories, just stories I’ve been told.