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A pink glow pushed through the eastern horizon. Birds sang on tree branches. The first sunrays glimmered on the husks under my feet. I held the broom, sweeping sunlight into a pile.
He who sows the wind will reap the storm.
In the yard, the longan tree was blooming, its blossoms spreading a dome of pearls atop its green canopy. Instead of bringing joy to my heart, the sight reminded me that life’s peaceful moments could be as short-lived as flowers—gone with a strong gust of wind.
Darkness was thinning, the shadows of villages that bordered the horizon looked like women whose backs were bent with the burdens of life. My mother had had to bear hers, and it was now my turn.
I realized that war was monstrous. If it didn’t kill those it touched, it took away a piece of their souls, so they could never be whole again.
Now that I’d shed four children along the way, I was a butterfly who’d lost its wings, a tree who’d forsaken all of its leaves and branches.
Yet I knew I couldn’t waste my energy on even a single teardrop:
