"I have a special gift for you,” my mother said. It was the day I turned 18. “Where is it?” I asked, “Wait till the end of the barbecue," she replied; It was the yearly Thanksgiving barbecue night, The urge to fry was high, And the fire was hungry for flesh; The day went as usual; The smell of fried meat churned appetites; Happiness perfumed the air, Laughters ignited candles of conformity; This went on until an eerie silence descended on all at the end of the barbeque. It was a sacred silence where everyone fell into a trance. First, my uncle brought a sealed black urn and a white photo album from the living room and put it at the center of the backyard table Mom told me to sit. And the ritual started: Dad turned towards the garden, where two white Magnolia embraced, As if they were confiding secrets into each other. He stared at them like a tree whisperer. My Mom sat at the table, covered her eyes, and ...
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