Archaeology and other ways of telling stories…

zzzzcrema_potsherdArchaeology is storytelling.

A potsherd, flecked with bronze color, fine as dust, a broken piece of comb nearby, and we know this was an upper-class family, probably with two servants, enough money for oils (plural) – maybe for ritual sacrifice to a patron deity or private cultic ceremony honoring a father or a father’s father; the woman of the house would use the comb to capture her long, flowing brown hair flecked with sun-streaked strands she might have used the comb to highlight in social prominence or hide in embarrassment of her southern genealogy, yet as the wife and mother in this midlands household she would have been afforded deference, the home actually like a small estate with rock walls demonstrating ownership as well as creating a rare sense of privacy; and the male would hire laborers to tend the fields to the east with wheat or barley but probably not great success as the arable land extended just several hundred meters to a rocky and abrupt incline hardly useful except for the children to climb until summoned home by their mother who has put her hair up using a fine comb, and her voice is either strong and confident or embarrassed.

Bill + Mary
Bill + Mary in the shape of a heart
remains, somehow, to be unearthed,
discovered, dated and recorded
as archaeological relic in the storytelling
of a science that is not at all that;
it’s been etched, carved or inscribed
in some semi-permanent dust,
covered and cosseted by years
of ignorance of Bill and Mary,
neither royal or memorable
their love may not have been
love at all, it could just as easily
have been Bill’s fantasy, or lust,
or Mary’s romantic dream,
maybe the vindictive jealousness
of a spurned lover Bill and/or Mary,
and of so many other options
come to nothing at all for either,
no courtship or excitement,
proposal, troth pledged,
no toil or nervous first kiss,
nuptial shyness or blushing,
no love at all for Bill + Mary,
but that never stopped
archaeologists before, has it.