"Don't drop your tears in my garden," she would tell me, her whole body poised and slightly tilted, giving me the impression that she would turn sharply and slice me in half. She made me feel I could contaminate the earth and kill her plants with my tears, and that feeling more than anything, perhaps, had me suck back my sobs and stop crying quickly. Apologies didn't satisfy her back then, either, even from a small child.
"I don't want to hear it," she would say, sweeping the air between us as if my words were as clearly visible as soot to her. "Just be more careful."
