Today my two dogs and I crossed the main road in the mulberried dawn. Frozen puddles and miniature peaks of cold-hardened mud greeted us on the other side. Looking back at the Venta, the blinds were still down; the building’s eyes tight shut against the cold. Only two days ago a bright butterfly crossed my sightline and danced alone. I thought of Chilean women with black-and-white photographs in their hands. Then I thought of things done in the name of politics, by men with gilt on their uniforms and guilt on their consciences. Then I looked at the butterfly in the sunshine. The one warmed my soul and the other my skin. And I thought there is always hope, just as the spring always returns after winter.
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