Unbroken Soil

My body is a ledger of survival. Every mark, every ridge, every knot of flesh is an entry—a transaction between me and the world that has tried, in turns, to swallow me, shape me, or spit me out.In Mozambique, we say "e;a árvore cresce conforme o vento"e;—the tree grows as the wind bends it. But what happens when the wind never stops blowing? When it comes not in seasons, but in ceaseless, howling...