REFLECTIONS

The window of my childhood bedroom. I stand out here to reflect on on the room that holds my childhood secrets. The room I left at 23 to get married to my David. Today the glasses have since been changed to great reflectors. My father, who gave away my hand in our compound, just outside this window, now lies in the same compound, and I see the reflection of the white stone that covers his grave.  The green lush of the fields where I grazed my father’s cows is now degraded to pale green.  I now stand here, reflecting, at 52. The mooing of cows in the distance, and the sweet concerto of the birds; I know I am home.

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