Mom said there’d never been a good year while she was alive. Her great-grandparents had been the last to experience a sense of well-being. She had always lived with ecological disasters, which worsened day by day. At least we can still feed ourselves, she told me, live in peace at home. Our home where swallows nested in the roof. Mom believed that swallows only nested in happy homes. How do they know, Mom? How can they tell a happy home from a sad one? Because there’s a brilliance to happy people. It expands and things become imbued with it. What does imbued mean? That the light lingers on
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