My village had no electricity and one pig.

This is the story my father tells when he thinks

I am finally old enough to listen.

It is too recent for

once upon a time, too private for

third person, too self-conscious for

introduction, not ready for an ending.
 

Maybe I would understand this history of pride

if we had a common alphabet. Instead, I test his accent against

mine: shifting verb tenses and misplaced emphasis

and consonants that sound like vowels that sound

uncomfortable.
 

Pathetic.
 

Do you know? How lucky you are.