And so he told her of a woman with salt in her hair and laughter like wind chimes. Of a dance under a tin roof during rain. Of a letter never sent, folded into a locket.
And somewhere, beyond the horizon, the woman in the locket smiled too. e mberego
“ E mberego ,” she repeated softly — as if learning a prayer. And so he told her of a woman
When he finished, the girl pressed her small hand over his heart. folded into a locket. And somewhere
“No,” he said. “It’s what I say when I close my eyes. E mberego — I remember.”
He smiled — the kind of smile that lives in wrinkles. “ E mberego ,” he whispered.