“Wow that life sounds so idyllic.”
I’m thinking of these words while I am looking at villager O’s face. She smiles at me. I remember the first time when I sat in her kitchen and told her about my dreams which had been shattered and what it was like having to start again, how hard I found it to even put seeds in the ground, because sowing seeds seemed too symbolic.
“That is nothing.”
And she told me about her shattered life, buried in the local cemetery. Not once, but three times.
Too young to have stories of their own, only able to form part of a bigger story, her story.