“Son? I’ve been sterilized for decades!”
Butterfly sits on nose; leaves bruise.
When we were small, we had in our backyard what we thought of as a field of sugar canes. It wasn’t that, of course, except for in our imagination. We have sugar beets, not canes, here in the Scandinavian North. Up until this day, I don’t know what those imagined sugar canes truly were – maybe bamboo or a type of weed? – but I do know that they were tall, green, round and juicy, and I also know that they made this delightfully crisp sound when we harvested them with our makeshift play-scythes. I remember those days vividly and with fondness, but I understand now, sister of mine, that you perhaps never saw those sugar canes, but that I, and only I, was the one who did.