Emma had been a great sister to me even though wedid not always get on well together, and we had created an entireimaginary world together. That was before the cancer got her. After thatshe went downhill very fast, losing her hair to the attempts at treatment.Despite her doctor's advice, she started drinking alcohol near the end todull the pain, and died only a couple of months after being diagnosed.I could hear my mother crying in the next room and decided that she mustbe even more upset then I was at losing Emma. She had wanted to cremateEmma so that at least she could have her ashes by her bed, but it wasEmma's wish that her body be spared that fate and given a decent burialinstead. Not many people apart from her family had come to the burial,because her friends were Internet ones and spread far and wide around theworld. It was then that I noticed the long brown wig that Emma had beengiven to replace her hair that she had been very proud of, and an ideacame to me-for a short time. Not just theirs, though, a legend shared by many tribes throughout the basin of the Amazon. It is a story that has been passed down from mother to daughter over generations and generations and generations. Nobody knows how far back the story goes.” The people around were hushed, all listening to the story being told, again. It appeared to be a beloved story that was told and retold with care and love. “There is much to the story of that has been added about experiences of others, the need for continuing tradition, the power of people united, sharing, and supporting. But, for you to understand the story and why they repeat the name …”The story goes back to a time when time was not something that was important. Life was life, it was as simple as that. Maybe, a time only marginally different from now for them. And, at that time, life was not a good life. Life for the people was hard and there was much hardship. The a****ls of the jungle seemed to have disappeared. Their choices for food.
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