Hands. Blood. God. The women wove those words together, the same way they hung their clothes on the lines. Mixing words like shirts of different colors, inseparable. Exactly the way they laid them out to dry on corrugated aluminum. The way they went to church every Sunday, veiled with holiness, only to come home screaming in the Spanish curses nobody could understand. I thought of umbrellas, how these women carried them in both rain and sun, always finding ways to cover themselves. The more I listened, the more I understood what had happened...
~Bino A. Realuyo, The Umbrella Country
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