a lot.  you’re  noion to imes do ure, you’re trying to discern t ts in tory leading up to t. And tion, you’ll take pleasure in trying to imagine, not my pain, but  you’re so craftily trying to do.

    Yes, I returned o discover t someone ore out my  and smelled rembled and I couldn’t breato raise  silently in  up, Fat up, don’t die. orn papers and books, more tossing about of tables, paint sets and inkpots, more truction of cusables and ing boards, and t red t royed t. I reet outside, laugalking in te silence of tears off my cime I t about the children and our lives.

    I listened to to tever reason,   t  paying any mind to to pull airs. rengt and I sat on a step. I ears again  urned. I grabbed my fato my armpits, I continued to descend, faster time. My

    dear fat it made t mop as it struck eacep. At tairs, I turned o er, and  effort, dragging one floor, I took o ting room. In order to see cened back out to tove in tcurned ruck.

    , my God, whem?

    My mind  from tc er from tairs, and by t of an oil lamp, I quickly aircase and everyairs to my room, removed my bloodied clot on clean clot and rag, I  to enter tyard gate so prayer ered all my strengted for t top of tairs.

    “Mother, we’re back,” Orhan said.

    “ as if I were w sing.

    “But Mot stay out past to prayer…” S o say.

    “Quiet! Your grandfather is ill, he’s sleeping.”

    “Ill?” said ell from my silence t I a. After t arrived,  tarrying,  the children.”

    I o go do as I a