Kaatzie. Testa sis chijerw. Tzátzie, jihadaeaero. Come here. The dog does not bite. Sit and stay, my particularly good friend.
Katzha gaije? Tinnijgo otthohwrha? Chotsis chijrw. What have you got? How much money will you have for it? See here what I will give you.
Agaendeero. Chanooro hiss. We are
good friends. I make much of you.
Kareenach testa hije gaijw. I have a knife for you.
Kassha schaeaenu. Give me that for nothing.
Taesta, taesta. No, no.
Hoona sattaande.
Now I am going away.
One June morning, her mother moved out of the house, packing and leaving so very quietly.
“She was too dignified to make a scene. Can you imagine [my mother], like wailing or curling up on a carpet? I don’t think so.”
I ask her if her mother said goodbye to her. “I think so,” she says. “I definitely remember her saying goodbye to Jericho, though. That was sad. He was hers.” After a quick middle finger at her husband, her mother’s last words in the house, maybe to the house: “Too bad.” It was the last time all three of them would share a room, excepting a courtroom for custody and a gymnasium for graduation.