Magic Butter and Trauma

Her Mother died when she was young. Her father raised her and her sister. They lived in a room that was very cold.

Her father could only afford some bread or some coal. He choose the bread.

After school he would divide it between them. She and her sister ate their piece of bread  all at once.

Her Father would tear his into small pieces and spread it with special butter he had brought with him from the mountains in Tibet.

Later at night he would eat his bread and share the small pieces with his young daughters. I knew the girls when they were very  young.

Years later I saw one of the girl, now a young woman. She saw me through the window and invited me in.  She pointed to a chair and I sat down.

She continued what she had been doing ignoring me, a ritual of sorts. Silently.  I stayed only a few minutes and let myself out.

What happened in the years from when I knew her as a  child till now? I’ll never know.


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