Brigid Faye, Reader

Nana, the boy called running into the small abode.

Boy, she said happily, relieved at his return.

“Nana the men are fighting between us and the well.”

She knew this would be her end.

The boy would fight.

The boy might live, he might die.

The boy would leave her for the action.

But she was bedridden.

And she knew he would no longer draw the water.

For his Nana.