With the stroke of a pen, they enabled me to write the story, gave a framework on which I could hang all manner of dreams and assumptions, inviting a search I never quite got around to making.
I wandered the beaches of Estoril in my dreams, stalked the avenues of Lisbon, looking for a familiar face, but found only ghosts.
With the stroke of a swab inside my cheek, a vial of saliva mailed, the story came apart, and a new story slowly unfolded, gone forever was Iberia, replaced by Scotland and Ireland, Wales, Norway and Germany, and my dreams were filled with the music of the bodhran and Highland pipes.
I am a child of ghosts, my parents adopted and birth, all visit me, but only in my dreams, for ghosts prefer the reality that dreams allow. Some say that dreams are not real, but they live in the mind as do every other reality I experience each day, my senses merely inexact lenses for the mind. Perhaps dreams are more accurate, a deeper reality in the end, for they arise without passing through the lenses of the senses, whole and complete, and as quickly gone. I am a child of ghosts, and I will eventually join them, haunting the dreams of others.
My ancestors stole your tongue and left you mute in a world you could not grasp. Now as I search for words of forgiveness I can find none, for my voice is clogged with foreign phrases that once told of your ancestors who lived amid these rocks. We schooled you, stealing your spirit, which whispers to us as the sun climbs slowly over the great stone set deep into the endless desert. When the wind comes down from the north, it sings a song which cuts through our coats and deeply into our bones. There is no one who will claim us when we are plundered for display in some museum, no one to sing a blessing to ward off the spirits that will haunt us into the next life. The ghosts of your people walk among us and we can, at last, hear their whispered entreaties carried on the wind deep into the canyon.