Our lineage is full of lost stories, the snippets and fragments and glimpses all that we have, so that even if you know the dates, the branches of the tree, the names, you cannot see anything but the most rudimentary of broken mosiacs, like images fleshed out from dinosaur foot prints. The stories that we tell about the dead are always incomplete, projected over with our own longing. This is as true of the recent dead as the long buried. We take our perceptions and make them truth.  Gathering our tales around us, we fortify ourselves with our own mythologies. Of other people’s lives, loves and losses, I can only really pretend to know. I am fleshing out my own images from foot prints.…