Under the tarmac where you park your car, beneath the thin soil, is a limestone fissure , filled with water from a glacial residue. When you knock on the door to take away our daughters, I feel like I am in some strange play. Improvising, we are all still treading through the debris of an emotional hydrogen bomb. I offer you tea, you refuse, cross your legs and wait for our girls to finish their eggs. I wave smiling as the car pulls away , close the door and light a cigarette.