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    Still Air      
 

In a house which seemed as vast as the whole world, I used to play hide and  seek with childish mirth, ride on a swing with delight, slide down a chute and mischievously hide myself from my mother and father with boundless thrill. I used to climb up, not unlike a yellow balloon, the fig tree at the end of our garden, breathe in gulp of fresh air from the deep blue sky and then smoothly slide through my dreams down to earth.

Now none of those small joys remain.

Now inextricable entanglements with shades and shadows and with greys rooted in our hearts prevail.

Now whenever I reach out for the sweetest memories of places and times I find nothing more tangible than a murky haze, I only see a dear one who atrophied, drop by drop, and, when gone, left me with an assortment of black and white photos and negatives that related metamorphosis of her body until her death.

Now with those memorabilia I, as though in a trance, create a tree and a doll with a big grey dress, subconsciously yearning for something to germinate and blossom out of it so that, perhaps, it would enable me to recreate my dreams and soar to new heights.  

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