According to Mom, she’d started her life on this planet as a chipmunk. It was about the right size for her fresh out of her “larval stage.” She quickly cycled through roadrunner, dinnerplate tarantula, armadillo, and chicken, as she roamed the American Southwest, before becoming a human girl.
“That’s not even a lateral move,” I’d tease her. “Why not an eagle or a river otter? Or a treasured housecat? If it were me, I’d rather stay an armadillo than be some stinky baby.”
But Mom wanted to belong. She wanted to be rocked in Gramma’s cushy bingo arms, have nonsense syllables cooed in her face. “After all,” she’d tell me. “I had to learn English the same as any baby. Nobody in Oklahoma spoke Galactic Standard.”
Of course they didn’t.
But she stayed friends with the chickens, the hens anyway. For the longest time, she thought their eggs could hatch into anything they wanted, just like she had. So she went out to the henhouse and read to them, fantastical stories, to give them ideas. But the eggs all ended up scrambled anyway. Still better than what became of the roosters. She’d shudder a little, then launch into the story of how she almost became an entree instead of a daughter.