My father’s father was made of stone, of anceint rocks from the belly of the earth. He could sand wood against his cheeks. I think he thought he was made of wood, which would explain a lot. You’re more careful with your person when it’s wooden. Marble is hard, but softer than most rocks. The marble that lines the bed of Lake Champlain seeps minerals into the water that make it good for your hair. When I was little, my grandfather told me rocks could float. Maybe he was made from wood after all.
My father’s father was a raven, like the trickster who first brought food to the world. You coulldn’t get a straight answer out of him, and when he told you things there was a bit of sandpaper hidden inside or maybe a bit of stone, so if you tried to eat it then you had rocks inside you, too.
My grandmother was once made of smallness. My grandfather used to say she weighed nothing, no matter how much she ate or how many layers of clothing she put on. Now that he’s gone, though, she wheels a wheelbarrow on her own, and stands in the kitchen with freeweights, flexing. At night she looks out the window, and she is made of looking.
My grandfather framed fibers under glass, if you break the glass then they’d be dust, like Popcorn Snow.
My father was made from protein chains, a crinoid or ammonite. Or maybe he was the world’s first boy. He never lost his baby teeth. He was created whole.
My father is made of ferns.