The Confluence
Who was my mother in the sunlight as she stared into the confluence of the Blue and White Niles? Two ancient rivers joining—the conjunction point— now as one, flowing north. What kept her there—her staring— beyond the bright sun, as taxis left, the National Geographic photographer who was so friendly disappearing into his car, as the sun dipped and darkness shut without the usual red dusk of the Midwest? What was she thinking as she stood with her young daughter in a war-torn Sudanese country in 1959? Maybe it was our emergency landing in Addis Ababa or the recent death of my...
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