It’s Mother’s Day. In the village in a foreign country my host grandmother has hooves for feet. She sits in the living room after bending her back from morning to evening, in the garden, in the outdoor kitchen, in the animals’ home. I serve her thick, dark coffee with a piece of Russian candy. Does she worry I’ll hit her with the silver pot one day? It’s a jazva, she spits. Use our language. Her teeth are badly eaten but it doesn’t affect her self-esteem. She would not know the concept, anyways—she would not see its selfish grace.
literally stories 