I was thirteen when I saw them take her to the mental asylum. She lived in a shack across the road.

‘Alas, after her husband, and having no father, brother or son to look after how is she going to find her way?’ people asked.

Every night one could hear knockings on her door. The door never opened. And when it did, I saw her for the last time. Sunken eyes, frail body, disheveled hair; yelling and cursing everyone.

Even at age thirteen I could see her eyes were sane. Sad but sane. She just knew what she was doing.




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