e c l e c t i c a
s p o t l i g h t a u t h o r
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"I think that is what I shall do to my memories of Angel. I shall wash out the ones of when she became ill, when she no longer looked like the Angel I knew, and keep only the ones that do not make me want to cry. I do not want to think of her blown into nothingness when the wind carried her ashes," Oge tells herself, pushing her thoughts to a different memory of Angel.
Your wedding day is a drizzly Saturday. Your mother worriedly tells you it is bad luck to marry in the rain, but you cast her worries away with a laugh and the back of your palm, telling her it is merely superstition. You are beyond superstition. It has no power over you. Your mother smiles, but her eyes still look worried.