She clings to her traditions, her rhythms.
And somewhere in the middle, we find a way to coexist.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I say, rising from the table.
She nods, her gaze still lost in the smoke.
As I leave the kitchen, I’m struck by a thought.
Perhaps it’s not about understanding, but about presence.
About being here, in this moment, with her.
The garlic ritual continues, unchanged, a testament to resilience in the face of time.
And I find myself wondering if, in some way, it’s enough.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
