Flumes Vol. 3: Issue 1 Summer 2018 | Page 99

known. On an expedition with so many brilliant men and women, I stood out only for my lack of genius. Often, I ate alone, slept alone, worked alone as everyone else engaged in their passions with fervor. Instead, I wrote anxious journal entries. I had no special propensity for documenting our efforts, unlearned even in the necessary vocabulary to describe their skills and techniques. I was ill-equipped to be our historian, to record scientific progress, to chart our objectives.

I read one of your stories, said Helena. It was a fable about an orphan boy who grows a family from seeds. His father, a maple tree. His mother, a willow. Aunts were vines and uncles were vegetable stalks. His siblings, a row of tall evergreens. I kept expecting the story to take a dark turn, but at the end of it, the boy, surrounded, was happy.

I nodded, clueless to her point.

So tell us a story now. Tell us the story of how we have arrived here, Helena said. She was sincere. Demanding, even.

I looked at all the faces of my friends. Francisco. Glen. Susy. Lionel. Benjamin, and dear Helena. Slowly, I understood.

β€œOn the first –,” I began.

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