Our father’s gift was a shiny silence. Colorless, it stole sunlight and visitors’ eyes. The weight of two lives on its neck, our insulting wooden shelf became its home. One hour, we slapped each of its two cheeks, half expecting them to redden. It backfired. Our fingers reddened. Blood sang in our nails. Seamless white grains spat at us in mockery. Neck broken, we swept the two lives, the broken glass teeth. When our parents came home, the glass teeth betrayed us. They bit our mother’s toes. We chose a quick lie. Mama, the wind’s hands broke the hourglass not ours. We are not murderers. Father smirked. Mama hissed. What is this what is this what is this on your fingers, you bloody liars. She caned us and we no more received small-necked gifts afterwards. We learnt to count our hours in other ways
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