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 Oksilya Lying in the darkness of sightless eyes, Oksilya waits for company, tending every noise. I come and find her in a buttonless gown, out of which one old breast hangs. Oksilya our cook! Oksilya my childhood, Oksilya with the smell of carrots and thyme from Kenskoff, dancing a Banda in the kitchen, Oksilya buying me a pet chicken, Oksilya of corossol ice cream on Sunday and daily glasses of powdered milk, Oksilya my birthday cakes. Oksilya walking on black and white floor tiles. Oksilya of vacations in the mountains, shivering on a floor mattress next to her little niece who played with me. Oksilya with the laugh and the crooked knees, Oksilya! I want your photograph, I want to keep you, do you remember me? “How is the cherry tree?” she answers, “how is the mango tree right by the stairs to the coal kitchen out back? How is the orange tree which gave bitter fruits on the left and sweet ones to the right for the morning juice? Are they still there?” “I did not know the trees,” I mumbled. “I am up! I am up!” she cries, for all to come and see her walking with my help on the way outside. She checks her hair with one trembling hand. She lifts her head towards the sky. ...

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