The Anthropologist’s Daughter

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The anthropologist sat cross-legged on the ashram floor, listening to a woman in saffron robes and a shorn head.

A veil of serenity kissed the woman’s meth teeth and the bruises from her abusive relationships.

A mother’s shoulders relaxed after forty years. Sapience had finally settled into her name.

6 thoughts on “The Anthropologist’s Daughter

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