![]() ![]() When my book was new, I would open it slowly, slowly, in the middle, then I would bring the book closer to my nose. Then I would pull the string of the lampshade (light, warm like skin), and begin to read. ![]() On rainy mornings when I could not leave the house to play in the backyard, I would plump my pillow and let it stand against the bed’s headboard. One word would join another, turning into a sentence, a whole train of them turning into paragraphs, into pages, into books! I would copy onto my lined paper the letters, and then the words formed by joining one letter to the next, unlocking meanings, pulling them away from each other’s loneliness. She would sit beside me, guiding my hand to form the arcs, loops and crosses, the dips and turns of the letters: the alphabets in a dance. My mother taught me the alphabet even before I was enrolled in kindergarten class. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |