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I don’t know when I loved her most. When she was laying questions in my lap of when she hugged me silently. It was always summer when she was here. It is supposed to be summer, when mothers search for their children anyway. Once we saw the closest bond there ever was between a sheep and her little one. Both of them not knowing they belonged together, but we knew, and were surprised without words. Even the pictures we took didn’t catch the love between the mother and the baby sheep, the longing for each other, the perfect match was too big for the screen I had tagged along.

She just let it be. It cleaned her soul, she said, in ways that wounds are cleaned at hospitals, she said. I know she never went to a hospital though, to clean hers. She would have been sent to a mental health instituted instead.

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