At home, Ma tended to me like she did to Raian; we were injured and wounded birds under her care. Lately her bones sagged with the brittleness of age, of unrealized dreams; her eyes spoke of dreadful losses. The eyes are where the process of aging starts in the women of our world. I had seen it many times, and I started seeing it in Ma as well. The eyes go through so much—seen and unseen—that finally cataracts threaten their vision, clouding the lens of life for them. Then age attacks their hearts. Although women’s hearts are sturdier than men’s, they get weak from carrying unfulfilled or shattered dreams for too long and from nurturing lives that break them into pieces every few steps. Finally age catches up with their knees when they refuse to carry the burden of life anymore for their o
