liesI grew up in Elven cities. I never asked If Aragorn was African, or questioned why I recognized the villains in Eddings and Feist Within the mirror. East was nothing in my eyes But a sole direction in the endless Blyton Countryside. My dragons were more snakes than lions; The fireworks in Chinatown were Hobbit farce; The Dwarvish mines were never bombed or colonized; Good and evil were well defined, and those who died Could find a home with Aslan on the Endless Isles. I grew up with Western fiction. I never tried Relating to the Burmese Days of my own life, But dreamed oflies
travellingI used to sleep on trains: their soft rumble the rhythmic pulse of womb-blood. Now I drive, dread my mail, and forget my umbrella. It’s raining at your funeral. The cliché makes me smile, hair slick with the wet trickling over the small of my back — a caress. Washing away hospital astringency.travelling
In closing, my brother John plays Mozart. You preferred country radio; laughter to make babies smile; filling our house with vivid foreign spices. That’s over now. You’re gone. Scents, like memories, fade with time. All I can feel in the cello’s
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