“Death has remade vindictive praying mantises into hunch-backed maidservants, has remade godlings into kindred cowherds who later rose to legendary prominence.”
Read More
“Scrawny,” she says, prodding her this way and that, pinching her ribs, sparse as sitar strings. “Far too scrawny. But your hair,” the Grieving Mother touches the end of her braid, long and dark, the last remnant of her mother. She shies away, afraid the Grieving Mother might chop it all away. But the Grieving Mother only shakes her head, drawing the ends of her white odhni over her bald head. “Well. I can do something with that.”