Disclaimer

Every Sunday, I climb the mountain to a rock outcropping called Lover’s Leap.

People say it’s named for a Cherokee girl who threw herself off to her death, out of love for a man from an enemy tribe.

The records, however, mention only a coon hunter.

He stumbled over the rock and survived his injuries. I’m sure he hurt,

but you can see why they tell the story the way they do, and why I prefer their stories.

After questions such as, Did he love me,Did I love him enough?

long walks and more distant histories become attractive.

In history, there are facts, and there are disputed facts,

and it is bearable to consider either answer.

So I look down on the little town from the rock, and pick out recognizable parts:

the house where we once lived, the old school

where class was taught blab style, children repeating lessons aloud together.

It’s the talk of people past I continue,

though I am an inexact student, unfaithful to the details.

I think they would forgive me

for what I do with words, like a new girl, who can only sign her name with an X.