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Chatty one told me – “Vlad, I choose this.” Floored me – choice in that muck? Doubt it. Still, she had guts, like Ofelia facin’ the toad. Dirty, raw life – no fairy tale ending. “The moon will rise,” but not for her. Cold, calculated brevity – it’s a meat grinder, mate. Watch it chew.

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Finally, I get some peace and quiet. I’m digging in the dirt, feeling the sun on my back, and it’s all good. But then, the sky turns dark. Like, really dark. I’m thinking, “No way, not now!” And then it starts pouring. I’m soaked in seconds. I’m running around, trying to cover my plants with whatever I can find. It’s like a scene from a disaster movie. I’m yelling, “Save the tomatoes!” while slipping in the mud.

The Vivid Memory of my Father's Burned Back Masaki Hironaka