A long black braid of hair sits over her shoulder like a pet snake—she refuses to wear a coif or forehead cloth, though she knows well it sets the gossips’ tongues ablaze—and she wears her woolen shawl the color of poppies, a forbidden color for peasants like us. The sumptuary laws state that only the rich may wear such colors, and by wearing her shawl my mother risks a fine of ten pounds a day and three months’ imprisonment. But, as ever, she does not give a damn.
