There is a pervading romanticism to a flowering tree. All the more if your hospital window looks out to one.
My friend’s wife picks up curios by the dozens when she is traveling, and every time I visit their home, there are new ones that grab my attention. This time, it was a Chinese Dragon junk on their coffee-table.
You can’t keep kids out from anywhere, especially if they have been told what’s out-of-bounds. Children are curious.
The journey itself, transitory as it is, is a sensory train. You keep flitting ahead, your shadow skiing the sides, and the mind is a little child in the toy-section of a supermarket. There is nothing greater or relevant than the world you find yourself in.
When I turned around in the wheelie, ruing the missed opportunity, the sunset had become wallpaper. And, etched on the wallpaper was the unmistakable silhouette of man and beast, transfixed as night settled on the tree-tops.
As the January sun ebbed away, the last light was caught for posterity in the spikelets growing in profusion on the embankment bordering the paddies.
How does it feel when you are locked in metal, to a size many times smaller than what you actually are?
The IHM Chronicles Series
On My Nightstand
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