In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was watched, and the watchers were afraid of it— which is how we knew it was holy. My mother taught me to speak certain truths only with the water running, her voice beneath the sound of it like a second river, secret, necessary, the kind that feeds the root and never reaches the sea. I thought this was how all women spoke. I thought the water was part of the sentence. I thought silence was a kind of punctuation every language shared. I was a child.