The bleeding broths smelled of mothers and sisters and daughters tied at the stake. They were the voices. l heard the words and learned the language with which to describe the long time fear.
The narra trees are in bloom, Marikit. I can smell them from here. If I stand with my back to the wall and turn my head all the way to the left, I see the dark yellow sprays over the trees reflected in the windows. And always, at this time, I remember your father. You knew so little of him, or he, you. But maybe it's just as well. Now we can talk of him and choke on the words in forgiveness. We can look at him from where we are with different sets of eyes; watch him focus and blur, and we, you and I, will not hurt too much.