Spring Returns Year After Year, and the Swallows Come Home

When I was eight, Mom and Dad brought home a pretty little boy.

He was terribly disobedient.

I fed him candy, and he bit off half my finger.

I bathed him, and he shoved my whole head under the water.

I went to play at an uncle's house, hoping to trade for some city chocolate to give him. He charged in like a madman and tore a chunk of flesh from the uncle's leg.

He said his home was in the faraway capital. I didn't understand, but at night he cried into his pillow while I carried him on my back. I thought he missed home.

So I secretly took him away, stuffed all the candy I'd saved into his pocket, and pushed him to leave. Mom and Dad's fists and sticks came down on me. Blood mingled with sugar water, and I thought maybe I should just sleep forever.

He really was disobedient. He ran back again, curled up on top of me, and let his tears fall into my mouth. They tasted salty and bitter. He held a kitchen knife to his own throat.

“If you beat her to death, I'll die with her!”