and there, you stumble onto secrets although they were not secrets at the time. You were a child. You saw but didn't understand. Your visions were narrow. You understood a pear to be an apple.

It is enough that you were once your mother's child who sucked out the last drop of milk from her breasts, already depleted by your sister and brother before you. Don't question why you were your mother's child, not any other woman's. Why your father was who and what he was. It matters little if he was a shameful swindler or a notorious womanizer. It matters only to the ancestors who remember everything clearly even in their graves.

When mother died, I buried my memories with her. But dreams came. There is no controlling dreams. Night after night, I plowed through dreams. Dreams became memories.