11

She slices the butter, giving it space to soften, and a visceral memory grows. She has done this before, yes, but the sensation comes from a depth beyond her own muscles, beyond her own cells, and she knows. Her mother sliced butter like this. 

She looks at her hand, holding the gentle weight of the silver knife, and she sees her mother's hand. The resistance of the cold butter against the blade resonates deep in her marrow.  An unexpected connection across time, from a place unseen. Lineage anchors her body with a single thread, experience passed on through new skin and bones. 

She is her mother's daughter, and yet, she is only herself.

- Still, Between