Kako Tonju spoke with the clip clop vowels of falling hooves.
One pony, short story …
His voice the crackling embers of a well-burned fire,
his eyes the color of tempered steel.
džas tele baxtale dromensa
ame jile giljaven …
Hoof-beats ticking off the hours as the wagon slowly swayed like a boat on the calmest of oceans.
Our unsteady children’s hands threading salke twigs into half-hearted baskets that couldn’t hold our memories;
full of holes and hopes.
Baba’s bread a dance all of her own. Kneading, pounding, slapping,
tapping the tins to settle the dough.
šuljkinav, aro raj
čhavenge maroro …
our lives were rhythmical.
Passing days like passing seasons spread out in a comfortable patchwork of here and there and back again.
Guitar strings sang in the night, fading into drunken words that flowed like water and threatened to drown.
Shoes shuffled in the early morning, a supplicant prayer to the cracking of old bones.