Mother be forgotten, buffalo meat cut to strips to dry. The sun.
When my youngest son died by his own hand, my life shattered, and my faith crumbled.
Because our religion always marked us as oddities—the people who didn’t believe in doctors—my mother cringed at anything she thought was not socially normal.
There is real joy in offering and receiving good will and in coming together despite our differences.
I called my children by each other’s names, missed appointments, left my keys in the running car.
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