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A Hundred Gourds 2:3 June 2013
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page 12  

Kala Ramesh - India


The Swing


Come rain, sun or moody weather, Grandfather hardly ever missed his walk. As the old kitchen clock struck seven in the morning, he would be tying his shoes and then strut downstairs towards the park. To me, grandfather was always grandfather, always old.

He's been bedridden for the past three months. As I enter his room, he looks up and winks, this man who could never wink 'properly', however many times we tried to teach him. And now, much to my child-like amusement, he blinks both his eyes, his smile running into the creases on his face . . .

the swing: the sky
of a thousand dreams,
pulls me in




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