“Dancing With My Grandmother”
by
Bruce McAllister
My grandmother makes beautiful things from the tiny, bleached bones of her children—the fourteen who died in childbirth or while they were still little. So many children died in that country then, and still do. They die from disease, or hunger, or violence, often at the hands of men and older children and, sometimes, even women, ones who’ve gone insane in a world where fear and rage have taken the place of love.Continue Reading
