Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

My Mother’s Tears

me alone, an intimate, reassuring phrase to soften the tragedy, to assuage my fear, but my mother—queen bee reigning over her subjects—didn’t spare me a glance, she dismissed me, banished me from her hive, as she had the photograph, non-existent, discarded, in the darkness of the garbage can with the cigarette butts and paper towels, with the coffee grounds and empty cartons, with the crumbs and vegetable peels.



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