‘The Weaver is blind tonight,’ my father said. My father rarely told stories. But there is another reason why this telling has been burned and committed to my memory. He looked old that night. Almost as ancient and weathered as my grandfather, his father, who lie in the bed he hovered over. The profile of their faces mirrored the other, as would mine. At ten, I too bore my father’s features but my mother’s dark hair and grey eyes also marked me as hers. Father’s large hand rested on the grey, sweat-stained brow of my grandfather. He slept in a feverish stupor, muttering in a language I couldn’t comprehend. Did a…