I have a single memory from my grandparents’ previous house. An afternoon siesta. My parents are napping, and I, sandwiched between them, listening to the quiet coming from within and without the house. My parents’ breaths, the glide of the few cars in the street below.
The
sounds that come from outside the house sound different according to the
season; thick and echoing in the summer, and somewhat sharper at
wintertime. This early memory is
seasonless. Perhaps back then
everything was bright and light, like a good feeling at springtime. At the spring of my life then, I was
lying on my back, gazing at the heavy upright shutter-panels of my grandparents’
porch. Stripes of blue sky peeked
between the panels; splashes of clouds whitened the blue here and there. And the safely of that calmness; safety
that came from everything and everyone around me.
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