I Love My Mother So Much, Because

I Am Becoming Increasingly Difficult To Please As A Reader, But I Adore Being Surprised By A Really Wonderful Book, Written By Someone I've Never Heard Of Before.

Once, I Discovered The Skulls Of Two Impala Rams, Their Horns Locked Into An Irreversible Figure-of-eight; The Two Animals Had Been Trapped In Combat, Latched To Each Other During The Battle Of The Rut. The Harder They Had Pulled To Escape From Each Other, The More Intractably Stuck They Were, Until They Had Fallen Exhausted, To Their Knees, In An Embrace Of Hatred That Had Killed Them Both.

What Is Important Is The Story. Because When We Are All Dust And Teeth And Kicked-up Bits Of Skin - When We're Dancing With Our Own Skeletons - Our Words Might Be All That's Left Of Us.

You Can't Rewind War. It Spools On, And On, And On, Looping And Jumping, Distorted And Cracked With Age, And The Stories Contract Until Only The Nuggets Of Hatred Remain And No One Can Even Remember, Or Imagine, Why The War Was Organized In The First Place.

You Learn Not To Mourn Every Little Thing Out Here, Or You’d Never, Ever Stop Grieving.