This is so beautifully written that I may never stop crying.

Vivienne Zeaiter

We’d be friends in different circumstances, wouldn’t we? Such fast friends. We’re alike, you and I. We’re pensive. We’re readers. We’re emotional.

It seems unfair to me that now that I’m learning to love the language of your homeland, you’ve lost the will to speak it. The stroke you had fifteen years ago has rendered you unable to walk, to talk properly, to chop firewood and stack it neatly against the fence, to laugh like you mean it. What a strange prison it is, intangible yet so well fortified, and built in the quickest second by an anomaly in an artery. You’ll always be locked away there with your words and ideas and puzzling faith, away from us.  

I used to be scared of you. It was a gentle sort of fear – respect, I guess. You were distant, tall, with your glasses and your knowledge. I felt as…

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