But when I did get
back, muddy from sliding down the hillside, bruised from
fighting, once bleeding great spouts of blood from a stone wound to the head (I still have the scar, like a silvered thumbnail), there would be the fire, and the smell of soup, and my
mother's arms not
tearing me apart but trying to hold me, clean my face, or straighten my hair, while I twisted like a lizard to get away from her.