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crane

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April 2013, vol 9, no 1

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Stella Pierides


Seasons

His eyes sweep the coffee table, taking in the piles of books, the envelopes, the dust. For a moment, I regret I didn’t put them away earlier, didn't polish the surfaces.

His gaze returns to rest on me calmly, as if he hadn’t been collecting information for our younger colleagues to talk about. I recall one of the others telling me he’d noticed I kept an atlas on my desk for seven years. What of it? What else could I do before Google maps?

We, the older generation, have become something to be observed, monitored, talked about. She writes haiku, they say, raising their eyebrows knowingly, exchanging glances. She’s aged…

I remember how we watched our children and our friends’ children, amused ourselves with their quirkiness, their funny ways, we mimicked their manner of speech; we wondered at the milk teeth, marvelled at their rate of growth. Now they amuse themselves observing us. We meant well, and so do they, I am sure.

the Earth revolves
round its axis –
rhododendrons again




crane