An image I can never get to forget, of a lonely old woman, or so we thought, and her pristine youngest daughter
A kiss to the forehead, seriously wrinkled beneath silken soft – juxtaposed to within an inch of African perfection
No such interjection, corrections a thing of the absolute past
Go on, blast your resilient mother with a fair degree of bee-stung intelligence
The glean is gone in this oh so fickle world of ours but you never, ever stopped crying
Tears which meant so very much to us in an otherwise rather manic river of meander

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