before the inevitable-evolution, the thieving-researchers were only just beginning to make out the shadowy contours of intergenerational metaphysics. they called it epigenetics. they put their individual names on papers, jostling to be first, vying to claim knowledge that was never theirs to begin with. meanwhile the indigenous mothers of old smiled a small smile and continued tending to their gardens and the young, unbothered by the noise. it is not surprising that the one who learned that butterflies can pass down memories to the next generation was a child--a child who viewed these butterflies as friends. our more-than-human kin are always telling stories. it is the children who are listening.
there was a time recently when my coworker, the descendant of #536c, began to cry. heartbreaking, shuddering, hiccuping cries. blotchy, flushed, red-cheeked cries. it lasted about two weeks. we know it was an ancestor in her, or multiple ancestors, speaking something precious to her: their own pain, resurfacing for air. after they were done the air around her was fragrant as if it had just rained.
prompt: joe nagai, math trauma