Wednesday, 30 April 2014

I meet him in the cool of the day, in the shade of the green trees, under a sky like a golden plum. I offer him a meal; I offer him rest. I hold his neck, tasting the sweat on him. His left hand is at my waist, each nail a crescent moon of soil.

"If it is a son we will call him Cain," I whisper, hopeful, terrified.

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