Snowflakes welcomed us no sooner did we reach there. A throng of tourists was clicking and capturing priceless and speechless beauty in camera, I was contemplating the journey back that we could have died any time like the bee. I felt so powerful, but that was a fragile feeling.
My mother as a married woman hardly showed her body parts, and she tried to cover them as much as she could in front of others. Doing so was deemed reverence towards her husband, as part of promoting her husband’s prestige and family honor, and maintaining her own chastity and purity.
“Because Dhido builds up your muscles,” he said, swallowing Dhido in such a way that I could clearly see the lump going down his gullet as his Adam’s apple moved up and down. My mother chuckled hearing my father’s explanation. My sister started having fun trying her best to swallow Dhido, saying, “Dada, dada, brother, look at here I swallowed it.” I imitated them with the hope that I would make my muscles strong but the lump-like Dhido got stuck in my throat.
The roof flew off. The rice recently harvested and stored in a spare room toppled over and hid underneath the debris. A cow in the barn got hit by flying splinters of wood and died.
The house stored beehives and bees; I used to run eating and sucking honeycombs with both of my hands, honey dripping off of my elbows and my mouth painted with sticky layers of honey, which when dried coated my face with a filmy layer of translucent sweetness.