An Ancient Clan

We are buried deep in Appalachia, ancient mountains and culture, brought together by family blood and reunion.  There’s plenty of blood, 17 of us from the marital union of two.  There’s also plenty of us buried roundabout, our great ancients awaiting resurrection, planted in plots barely seeing the sun, scratched out between hills that would only grow resuscitated bodies.  This is our country; for decades we prayed a living out of these hills until we got smart enough to find easier ways than moving boulders to plant a bit of hope.  I remember when I was young my dad drew down on a rabbit for supper and God pulled his finger from the trigger assuring him his needs where now being provided by the faith he was given.  So here I am, deep inside my hills, huddled in a corner of an old log cabin looking out over these ancient peaks thinking kindly of Their Maker; ridge upon smoky ridge, great waves of green eon, like distant stars shining light from the Eden earth sent forth by The Ancient of Days.  I was tied to these hills by my kin as I am tying my kin, we are the ancient tribes, an old and dear band, a family with roots in garden graves still pushing up blood and strong bone making up an ancient clan; The Family Benson.