Status Updates From When Women Were Dragons

My mother loved string. She loved how a single strand could twist and loop into infinite patterns and infinite possibilities—whole universes could be tangled in a single thread. She made diagrams of each knot in a little notebook, with corresponding calculations and algebraic expressions that defined the ways in which each wobble, loop, twist, and elbow intersected, interplayed, and bent inside themselves.

Perhaps this is how we learn silence — an absence of words, an absence of context, a hole in the universe where the truth should be.