She would awake and rise before the sun. She would wash her wrinkled, yellowish face with cold water, comb her hair gone silver from age, pain and separation with her children, she would braid it, and peacefully and quietly, as a candle burning down, she would stand in front of the icon. She would light the oil lamp and its fire would light her eyes. The icon reflected in them, and the eyes reflected back in the icon…

VG

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