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October 2013, vol 8, no 3

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Patricia N. Rogers


The Old Stone Sugar Mill

As a teenager I would sit in the window openings of the old stone sugar mill, feet hanging out into the air, looking up at the sky, while I listened to the sounds of the children playing around me. I am sure that we never thought about the slaves who built our stony hideaway, or the ones who used to bring the sugarcane in from under the hot island sun so that it could be processed. That was long before someone got the idea to build the condominium, with its pool next to the old mill. By the time we came along, the condominium had lost all of its polish, the deep side of the pool held stagnant green water and trash the wind had blown in, but the old stone sugar mill, though a harsh symbol of the past, had become a place of fascination and amusement in which to play.

remnants
laughter soothes
the ghosts




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