“…wrapping about her skin like the vines of the strangler fig on these hapless trees, like his insatiable hands and arms, like his greedy western thoughts…”
“…That firecracker of a child came to me in the time of red pistachio leaves. She loved reaching this part of the book…”
"She sees him bow his smiling craggy face down so his lobe meets her lips. The way he does this- one would think he is smaller than her..."
As the years stacked upon one another they traded every kind of laugh- from giggles to raucous ha-ha's over how she had to keep shushing him that day...
"She can't see the pigeons anymore. But she hears them take to the sky in bursts. The sunlight breathes on her knitted skin. She can't see the tower anymore..."
"The louder the rain came, the softer the message and yet it was all she could hear. And with thirsty ears she drank it's faint words..."
Aye, but it didn't feel as long as that slow dragging slide of her spine down the trunk of the Old Hornbeam Tree.
"For a Widow-Turned-Bride quite often needs that last moment to say goodbye to her previous chapter and hello to the next one; yea, and to breathe..."
Nothing else had such a way of making the child lose herself... quite like a sunset.
