His eyes moved under his closed lids and his lips pursed as if forming words. His body glistened with beads and rivulets of sweat in the hot moist air...of the confined space. He inhaled the clouds of steam; his chest expanded and contracted slowly, deeply, in a steady rhythm of long breaths taken hungrily through his flared nostrils. Vision followed upon vision like footsteps taken along a winding trail of time, tracing the decades of a life lived before his own, entwined in continuity with his. But, it was some time before I myself realized that it was meant as an insult. Having grown up without a mother, it was only natural that I had no one to tell me that I was the most beautiful person in the world( but, considering the typical mama’s of those days, I seriously doubt I would have ever had such words uttered to me by her.), but as is the case in most stories, my mother-figure came in the form of my personal handmaid, Martha- complete with bedtime stories ,motherly scolding and. More

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