Memory works somewhat like that for you. A few days strike out marvelously, rainbow-hued, or grey, sensorial, almost all of them from travels, ever since you were a little girl.

She had always felt somewhat burdened by her name. Her name to her carried the expectations of her parents and family, which restricted her already timid movements.

You look at the sands and pick some in your hands. They glisten, somewhat dry, mostly wet and you wonder how your heart and self-esteem was like the sand, weightless, shattered to a million tiny pieces, easily blown away by the gentlest wind.

She was too young to understand the full implicature of the term, but she knew the place where she stayed wasn’t home either.

You look at your ferns in the window. They sway in the delicious March breeze. The sounds in your head swell, then soften, they sway with the fern fronds.

They all look the same with different colours. Like my friends. All different. All same.

It was her world, her link to outer space, just as the word was hers and hers alone.

Sue gave her the sheer joy of seeing her own innermost being articulated in tiny atoms in someone else