before i was dust

"When I was dirt" ... is how we begin a story that was before our time. Before we were born. Once we were dust and to dust we shall return. Ashes to Ashes, dust to dust. A cross on our forehead on Ash Wednesday to remind us this is true.

For a long time I believe my first moment of existence is when I jump over a broom. I remember a house. I remember sunlight through a window, sunlight with dust motes sparkling in the air, and someone sweeping with a corn broom. A pile of dust on the floor, and I jump over it. Feet jumping over a dust pile; that was when the world began.

When I was dirt is when these stories begin. Before my time. Here is how I heard or didn't hear them. Here is how I imagine the stories happening, then. When I was sparkling and twirling and somersaulting happily in the air.

~ from Caramelo by Sandra Cisneros

Whenever I go home, I try to make it out to Rapid City to visit my grandma. I know I shouldn't have favorites, but she's always been my favorite grandparent. She also happens to be the only one still alive, making it even more important to visit her.

One of the things I love about her is her stories. She has so many memories of the family and its history, going way back to before I was dust. I love sitting with her on the couch, flipping through old photo albums, and hearing her tell stories of people I never met but are my family nonetheless. There are certain ones that come up time and time again...

There's the story about my great, great, great grandmother, whose own mother, upon hearing that her daughter was pregnant for the 13th time, exclaimed, "Ack, Minnie, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

There's the one about how my grandma and her 3 sisters lived together in a room by themselves so that they could go to school in town.

Then there's the one about the time my mom and her family went to Wonderland Cave in the Black Hills. As soon as they got out, my Aunt Caryn cried, "I out, I out."

The stories may be small when taken one-by-one, but they're the stories that make up my past, my family, from before I was even dust. They're worth telling over and over again, worth remembering, because some day, someone else will need to be there tell the stories to new, younger generations, who are not yet even dust.