Some legends live amongst the world, discussed, debated, believed or scorned.
My legend belongs to a few, those that know. Those who don’t, live in a state of imperfect oblivion.
And then there are those that wonder. These are the attentive kind, they see things the ignorant miss, small things that when seen or heard together form a pattern.
An unbelievable pattern the ignorant would say if you showed them.
Or perhaps they would use the words unlikely, impossible.
A pattern as decipherable as a worn map, a pattern that causes some of those who wonder, to seek the truth.
As in nature, the females are the nurturers.
They carry the legend from generation to generation, incubators of the truth.
The story feeds itself through their lifeblood.
Umbilical cords linking mother to child, holding the narrative together like the binding of a book.