Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Memories of an orange

There was a faint sound in the distance. I stared into the darkness ahead, a hollow black cave. The pounding was getting louder now and somehow the darkness made it worse. It filled my head, the vibration, the sound.

I opened my eyes again. It was dark and cold. My head felt heavy as I got up from the bed. It was the flu, yet again, a regular winter bane. And nothing was more seemly than a hot pepper rasam cure, another one of those grandmother specials.

There's a lot going on when there are geriatrics at home. It isn't just the novelty, but the classic lifestyle, strictly living by the rulebook. They've seen it then, they see it now, and what a preposterous change. Conceptions maybe paradoxical, but there is still a curiosity. Ethics maybe complicated, but it makes all the difference.

Everything now will be a memory later, a memory of them, a memory with them. Sixty years later, I will still remember today, when I ate an orange with my grandmother, when I smelled the fresh fruit, and when I freaked to find a white worm in it.


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