Something old infused like basil in oil, a tiny leaf of something crushed and perfuming…
This is how it begins:
When you make the move into a landscape, you take pains to name the most insignificant parts. All the big, obvious landmarks have been named. Eagle rock. Achachork. Death trail. Ida, though, gives names to the hidden, overlooked. Desert trails through the brush, too small to have garnered notice. Mines. Maybe they have names, but no one remembers them. Potholes. Gentle inclines in the road. A tree with a particular look to it.
Her own name blurs. Is it Ida? Aida? Ada? She must work out what country she came from, and what this town is called. She has to seed the place, so that later, when the research is done, it has accumulated meaning.