You look at the sands and pick some in your hands. They glisten, somewhat dry, mostly wet and you wonder how your heart and self-esteem was like the sand, weightless, shattered to a million tiny pieces, easily blown away by the gentlest wind.

You look at your ferns in the window. They sway in the delicious March breeze. The sounds in your head swell, then soften, they sway with the fern fronds.

Lower-middle class wives in this city, who came from small towns, led lives of warriors. Each day brought a new battle…