Joyful voices peppered the afternoon air. Maria and her sister laughed with pride while Papou told stories of older days. Voices overlapped, inserting details. It was noisy. Noisy with joy. [...]
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“Well, have you thought about names?” These words enter the conversation like a hammer meeting a nail. I picture her rubbing her palms together, assessing me from under her eyebrows—even over the phone wires. I know where she is going with this question. [...] Our stories are our gifts, not only to ourselves and to our contemporaries, but they are our best legacies to the women of generations to come, our way of making the desolate land fertile again. [...] “Mom, there is nothing else to say.” He motioned for me to drive forward. Away from her. Away from the fear and the chaos that slid between our hopes and us. [...] |
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