While my dida (grandma) still let's me hide away into her bosom for a few moments, those moments seem almost stolen. Stolen from a stack of collective moments that would perhaps, let her sleep peacefully, sleep after she's completed all the household chores, for which she has forever refused a domestic help. //full poem in caption// I."And then the thunder said that the eighth of the children born to his sister of affection, would be his slayer. The savior, the Lord. " Suspense. This is where my dida finished her episode for the day, of telling me stories from our mythologies. And this happened on one of the many almost jagged, almost scratched, almost failed memories I hold rather close to my heart. While my dida still let's me hide away into her bosom for a few moments, those moments seem almost stolen. Stolen from a stack of collective moments that would perhaps, let her sleep peacefully, sleep after she's completed all the household chores, for which she has forever refused a domestic help. But, I make a bargain in my noggin.
