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For days on end he was an automaton, sleepwalking the days, following Mama Theresa's urgings, taking no initiative, doing nothing on his own, not even eating or getting out of bed. auto prices He was shellshocked, his life once again torn apart by forces beyond his ken, his schooling abruptly ended, a wanted man, on the lam, running from the law. His heart broken and betrayed, his trust lost. Each morning she would bustle into his room, clucking as he lay in bed, eyes open, steady, looking at her but not really seeing until she opened the blinds, let in the bright Arizona sun, sweeping all the dark shadows away; then bid him come to breakfast.

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And obediently he would, eating without relish delicious chorizo and freshlaid eggs and tortillas and frijoles and potatoes fried in lard and all manner of strange food. Cresterea sanilor on link page Which was odd, for Barry had always been very hungry, had hardly ever had enough to eat, and yet he had little appetite, eating to please Mama Theresa rather than to fill his stomach, his thin frame, his heart. auto prices on Top page Later in the morning she would again come to his room; he was usually sitting on his bed, staring at nothing, doing nothing, feeling nothing, and urge him up, make him pick up one of his math books, take him out to the Saltillo tiled ramada with its view of mountain and plain, sit him in a leather chair in the shade of the ocotillo ribs, place a glass of cafe ranchero made by boiling a heap of sugar and another of coffee beans in water beside him cooled cafe, from the jug sitting in the old well.

auto prices They had electricpumped water for the house, but the old well kept some things at just the right temperature. They didn't use much ice here; the old ways were best. auto prices She would sit with him, knitting or mending a grandchild's clothes or shucking peas or beans or cracking open dried chiles; even on rare occasion rolling the mano, grinding dried maize into flour on the stone metate in the corner, next to the now unused beehive oven, placed outdoors to keep the house cool but only for the comfort, the rhythm, the tradition these were modern folk, storebought tortillas were the norm. Still, the old ways counted, couldn't be lost, especially when someone needing healing. She would do these chores and keep him company, while pretending the reverse was true. automotive Sometimes she was silent to his silence, but a silence of comfort, a maternal silence like none Barry had every known. His mother's silences were brutal, cold, punitive, just like the place in which she lived, the place he swore he would never see again. If his mother were to grind anything it would be coal, not corn.