You are named Huldah in front of your father's holy congregation amid heavy head-nodding and resounding amens which propel your tiny heart into fast beats that produce shrill cries from your tiny throat.
From your little bed when you are seven, you watch your mother proudly announcing to church members– who come on private visits to sow into the minister's daughter's life–that you will be a doctor when you grow up. You watch as they tentatively nod as your mom squints into mid air as though she can literally see you being a doctor, probably injecting some buttock or using a stethoscope. You take mental photographs of this scene and store it in your heart's closet; maybe one day it will be useful, who knows.
