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My grandmother told me a story. When she was a young woman, and bombs were dropping themselves on Europe, food was scarce in Arnem, the Netherlands. The bitter winter had frozen the ground, so that even a shovel couldn’t break the surface of the earth. On a particularly cold morning, a German plane was shot down, and crashed into a field filled with potatoes. The women of Arnem, my grandmother included, ran into the field, newly thawed by the burning wreckage of the plane, and gathered potatoes in the half-light of the evening. Not having shovels, they used sticks and other tools to dig the potatoes out of the earth. Some women used their hands, not having anything more effective at their disposal. This story is true. It is also true that my grandmother is now dead, a part of the story that she would find herself unable to relate. All stories exclude someone from their center.

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A talking ape, fluttering its fingers against the bars of the cage.

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No one is in the middle.

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I don’t remember much about it, though. I remember your hands. Your hands on the wheel, following the lead of my words. I remember your hands. Your hands at your side, emptied. I remember your hands on the table, your hands on the ground. My own hands were damp, and slipped easily into the loose topsoil.