you were born on a cool summer day in a quiet place in the countryside. your mother knew she would have you at home, under that tree out back. she made a nest there, underneath that tree way out in the back corner of the property and she made that nest from leaves, lost socks, lint, old newspapers and magazines as well as chunks of her own blonde hair taken from her own hair brushes over the nine months you were gestating. she felt it was only appropriate. when you were born the wind suddenly stopped and everything became even more quiet than it was. in the air there was a scent of turpentine and sawdust–at least that’s what your mother said but it was probably just her hormones. you cried for awhile because it’s just hard to be here like that, dripping in blood, so new and naked. you felt like you were intruding. but then a leaf fell from the tree, without the prompt of wind and you noticed its intricacies — the veins inside so very much like your own — and decided that even though it was hard being here, it might be somewhat worthwhile.