The brutal winds sweeping across the vacant prairies hadn’t merely blown—they whistled tunes from ghosts whose transient spirits sought to forewarn us of the impending shadows.
The blood of my blood flowed with an unbroken inheritance of silent traumas—a history that would have fractured most souls from within.
Contained within these pages are the footprints they left behind in the darkened red clay, the jagged thorns my mother was forced to bear, and the history of how those overbearing chains were forged.