Memorie5 0f Home: 1
It was always an image of warm, pastel, muted Sun
It was an image of Europe.
Of course I hadn’t seen the Americas, Oceania, Asias – anywhere else seemed
a world away
a time away (a long time indeed)
All I cared about was how the dew sat sleeping on the lime luminescent blades of
cow grass. “Cow Grass”. No fiddly jiminy “carpet grass”,
far from the Lalang (not Cattail) of tropical repute, not,
heaven forbid, the astroturfing nonsense that modern centennials are so familiar with.
Morning dew, Morning sunrise, Morning glory, fresh from the sprouts that grow all
through the night, just waiting, patiently,
silently – not there if unnoticed;
It is the little things that make us who we are
even if the timeworn, human, fallible memory of the mind
may falter and fade