Here, among the ruins of your island home, with winds bearing down and fires flaring up, you pause. You look at your choe, stronger than ever before, and you enjoy, just for a moment, the humble task of pruning her buds. For every snip, a new child is born, placed into dirt taken from their mother's pot. Her weighty branches relieve as you make the final cut, and the family is complete. If you don't act quickly, the water will submerge you, the fire will catch you, and the isolation will leave you stranded.

You didn't choose to face the world on its terms, but on yours, with what you knew you could manage. With limited abilities, you made questionable choices when every choice was questionable. Sometimes, we just have to work with what we have. As the sirens ring out, Persechoe's radio crackles to life with the blaring of trumpets and a choir of voices. The wind picks up, and the last song plays through a cacophony of thunder and static: "...there'll be days like this, my mama said..."