ink, sweat + cityscapes

“ ‘you are hurting yourself,’ she said.
‘hurting myself? i do not hurt myself, it is they who are hurting me. my own son, my own sister, my own brother. they go away and they do not write any more. perhaps it does not seem to them that we suffer. perhaps they do not care for it.” his voice rose into loud and angry words. ‘go up and ask the white man,’ he said. ‘perhaps there are letters. perhaps they have fallen under the counter, or been hidden amongst the food. look there in the trees, perhaps they have been blown there by the wind.’
she cried out at him, ‘you are hurting me also.’
he came to himself and said to her humbly,
‘that i may not do.’ ”