Wednesday, August 24, 2011


Remembrance is a tricky area – a shape-shifting mass of grey mist reflecting at once a dove, a bowl of soup, a cat’s furry paw or the delightful last page of a book – all passing over a pool of still recollections.

Sometimes all I remember is a rush of smells, a long forgotten flavor or a maddeningly familiar texture.

Photo: Leaning against my Dad's old Rajdoot on a Christmas morning about 20 years ago.