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dashed to her, springing up and down as I ran. Jausma
stayed far behind. She wasn’t in the habit of running to
Mama. She also already only said, “Made.” I had never
heard her say “Mama.”
“She can’t be a mama to Jausma at all. She’s too young,”
said Arvīds all-knowingly. We were in his house, in the
well-lit central room, a round and tall vase in the middle of
the table, lush peonies drooping around its edges. He
glanced at my pointer finger, which followed the alphabet.
Arvīds diligently readied me for the beginning of school. He
wrestled with my heavy head, which could not collect the
letters together so they would come to light as ready-made
words.
“Oh, la-nd-sss, ugh,” I murmured.
“Well, and together that would be…” Arvīds fidgeted in the
creaking chair, and my head was ringing from putting the
words together. The fly under the ventilation pane buzzed
in the room. All the little letters hovered above it and
knocked against the window pane.
“La-nd-scape. You’ll have to try again and again, until you
can overcome it. You can’t give up.”
“Why can’t Mama be a mama for Jausma?”