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This Is Not a Curse
On the day my daughter turns three old enough to understand fragments of the intricate theory of love, I will unfold my prayer rug and proudly confess to her: this is where you beg beg as if there's no tomorrow beg without the hesitation of hoboes in front of the porticos of affluent businessmen beg like a gale that would sabotage the plans of his perpetrators beg with a belief that you will be awarded what you're striving for tell as if you would perish without telling and then continue telling your Most Benevolent friend how your day went, how someone fibbed to you what makes you burn in delight, what are your darkest fears cry as if you have something to cry for this is how I will help her practise for I know the intense years that will unfurl she will have something or someone to cry for this is not a curse, I swear this is prayer in its purest form for I know this world will break her too the way it broke me, the way it broke my ancestors, so I have to help her long before she begins believing she's irreparable like pearls that know they can never go back to their celestial shells but with God by your side even the moon can be halved I will help her the same way my lovely mother did.