I can think hard about how to train puppy Goldendoodle; I can’t believe hard. 

“I believe the pup is getting better about not jumping up on people,” I may say.

“Think about it,” my husband responds.

Settle in. I have one more thing to share with you as a result of hearing cellos, because hearing cellos has both blessed and broken my heart.

It’s a celebration day—this June 7th. 

It’s a cold day, however. 

Oh, not weather cold but rather, my husband and I each have one—a cold, that is. One of those shared things. His arrived several days ago and only yesterday did it jump the barrier of resistance and land in my throat. 

I had sufficiently recovered from fits of laughter by the time we made it through Greek statuary. 

Arketa’s story is like no other. Hers was a privileged childhood, as privilege goes in a place without phones, power, plumbing, or peace. Her grandfathers were chiefs, her parents, London educated professionals, her training as a midwife was a coveted honor, and her husband, traditionally and admirably selected. But privilege gave way.          

~  ~ ~ 

It was not enough that five men swinging knives in God’s name decapitated her young husband. They raped Arketa—there, on the floor where Joseph’s headless body lay twitching. March 1984—the month of their first anniversary, her twentieth birthday, the third month of their son’s life, and the first of many proofs that her privileged life had ended.