If I remember my childhood, I was mostly a very belligerent and cheerful child. Almost every day I came home with a bleeding nose and a torn shirt. Every time I used to gossip behind the backs of my schoolmates who fought, I thought my decision was right. One day, a boy and I got into an argument about picking fruit from an ordinary tree. That boy insulted me in front of my friends, and I got angry. I couldn't control myself, and when he turned around, I threw a stone at him. The stone hit the boy on the head, and blood started to flow from his face. My friends around us ran away in fear. I was in a hurry and wanted to run away. But I decided to help him. The boy did not say anything, took out a handkerchief from his bag, and held his head. Fortunately, the wound was not serious, and the bleeding stopped after a while. As I washed my hands in the ditch near the tree, my anger had subsided, and I was thinking about why I had thrown the stone at him, because at that moment I realized that I had almost lost my mind. The boy dusted his clothes and started to leave without saying a word, picking up his bag. I was shouting after him to stop. He did not look back and walked slowly along the side of the road. The boy's curly hair glistened, either from the trail of blood or from the rays of the setting sun. I didn't know what to say to the boy as I walked by him. Both of us were walking together in silence. The boy and I were returning home together when he entered a restaurant at the beginning of the road and took out two samsas. He gave me one of the samsas. I was very surprised because I hadn't even apologized to him yet. Later, I found out that his mother worked as a simple dishwasher in that restaurant, and the boy gave me the samsa that he got from his mother for no reason. I went home and thought for a long time. I couldn't say sorry to the boy's face. I wrote all my words on a piece of paper and gave it to him during the break. He forgave me. Later, we became very close friends with him. Sometimes I think that he could take revenge on me, but he never did. Even though he was poor, he was always kind to me. But I know for sure that even if he were rich, he would not take revenge on me. But he is now dead, and I miss my friend very much. It was the greatest experience of my life. Currently, I have successfully resolved many conflicts; I have turned enemies into friends; I try not to make a decision when angry in any conflict, not to be jealous of someone, and to do good to my enemies. This experience was given to me by a friend.

When I was a child, in Guadeloupe, December 1st marked the beginning of a time of guaranteed pleasures. All I had to do was sit comfortably on the backseat of Mama's car while she was driving through the countryside and my ears would receive a full feast. All over the island—as early as I can remember—people had been organizing Christmas parties (Chanté Nwèl) where they shared seasonal specialties and formed informal choirs to sing the local, traditional carols. Driving with the windows down would allow the wind to share with us the songs it had been carrying on its back, in a succession of fade-ins and fade-outs; building anticipation for the parties we too were to attend during the season. Walking around in any community meant that, as you passed a kitchen window, you would hear the clanking of spoons and ladles on big cast iron pots filled with white yams, stewed pigeon peas or the most flavorful fried pork ragout—with the subtle, rounding touch of a bay rum tree leaf. If you were lucky, you would catch the process of boudin[1] making. If luckier, you would not miss the mixing of spices—women would chop Caribbean chives, parsley, garlic, fresh thyme and chili and fried it all very slowly, until all the aromas were released and danced in the air. I was particularly fond of Christmas decorations, especially the lights. People would hang garlands upon garlands on filaos[2] wherever they could find them. Sometimes, we did wish for snow—It was all over television. Could you really blame us? However, the contrast of winter themed decorations on a lush, green background was always a win. The colorful and vibrant illuminations of December rivaled poetically with the plainly beautiful lights for our Dead, just the month before. It was a time of milder weather, when the aggression of the heat had retreated and allowed the trade winds to hug our skins like fluffy cotton shawls. Sure… all of that was wonderful. But my true source of happiness was to be found on Saturday afternoons when we went deep in the countryside to visit my grandparents. They lived in a small, very traditional, wooden Guadeloupean house surrounded by an entire community of people committed to life in togetherness. “Manman[3], can we go get them now?” Oh, my mother knew what I was referring to. I had not stopped blabbering about it on the entire trip to Nana and Grandpa. Of course, she said yes. Asking was just a formality anyway; it was merely so she would know where to look if we had to go. I would grab my little sister's hand and we would run down the tuft road to first say hello to our great-aunt, Nana's sister. In her home, the radio was always playing biguine[4]. It was quite dark inside as the house was surrounded by fruit trees, which protected it from the hardest bites of the sun. “Hello, Aunt Lena.” A step or two of the biguine to mimic the old people's ways and make my great-aunt laugh and it was time to go. We would then rush back to Nana's house and say hello to Ma' Nò, on the other side of the road. Year-round, she had fat pomegranates hanging from a slim and short tree and she would always give us one to share. “Thank you, Ma' Nò!” Then we would run along the side of her house, pushing the tall grass, jumping over a tiny little stream to find ourselves on a small country road; and just 50 feet down stood heaven in the form of a jujube tree. The sight of the first leaf indicated the start of the hunt for the perfect fruits. I wanted them as soon as they had turned yellow—not completely—a bit of green was particularly desirable. This was the promise of sweetness, juice and just the right amount of tartness. Imagine sinking your teeth… Careful! Not too fast, not too hard. It is quite easy to hurt oneself. The stone in the middle is hard as a rock. Instead, allow your teeth to pierce the crisp skin and to feel the Granny Smith-like crispiness underneath, together with the first drops of sweet juice. Close your eyes—it only intensifies the experience. Bite off a piece of crunchy flesh and enjoy the transition of the texture, from a crackling sweet and sour battle to a mucilaginous puree with the taste of what happens when an apple tree has fallen in love with the tropical sun and founded a family of fun-size fruits of heaven. An occasional really yellow one was a special treasure—a burst of sweetness, less firmness, more chew; even more perfect when it preceded a barely ripe, mostly green one that would make saliva rush to your mouth with its amazing sharpness. Paradise, I say. Pleasure in abundance! If we were lucky, and not trapped in a hungry trance, we would bring a fistful back to the house so that others could partake in the deliciousness, the precious gift of nature that was sirèt[5] season. ----- [1] traditionally a blood sausage [2] horsetail she-oak [3] Mommy [4] 19th century music from Guadeloupe and Martinique [5] jujube

On the way home from school one day, Mom took us to a pet store just for fun. In a box beneath a heat lamp were the cutest little yellow ducklings, quacking away in their little duckling voices. We fell in love with them immediately. “Oh please can we get one?” we begged Mom. “Please please please?” “Okay,” she said, “BUT JUST ONE.” So we brought it home and put it in the bathtub. It was very happy there, swimming around and making its little baby quackles. But then I started to worry, “What will Dad say when he gets home from work?” (Sometimes Dad wasn't always happy with the decisions Mom made.) As it got closer to 5 pm when Dad's bus was going to arrive, I got nervouser and nervouser. No, that isn't really a word! I should write “more and more nervous.” Anyway, you get my point. By the time Dad got home, you can imagine how my stomach was feeling: like it was full of butterflies! Okay, so Dad got home, put down his lunch pail, took off his coat, and said to us, “What is going on -- you all look funny.” As in funny-strange. The four of us kids were happy and scared at the same time, and I guess it showed on our faces. “Ummm...Dad….ummmm...we have something to show you.” “Okay, what is it?” “Go look in the bathtub.” So he did, and he started laughing! “That little guy looks lonely,” he said, “he needs a friend!” We all jumped into the van and went back to Rodney's Pets & Feed and Dad bought us another little duckling! I named one Martha and the other one Petunia, after two of my favorite books at the time (George & Martha, by James Marshall, and Petunia by Roger Duvoisin). We four loved Martha and Petunia, and they loved us. They followed us everywhere around the backyard. In the late afternoons, we crawled around on the ground, hunting for stalks of their favorite grass -- appropriately named “duck grass weed” -- to bring them. They always quacked “happy, thank you” as they ate it. That's the thing about ducks: their emotions and their words are the same. Their word for “happy” is the same as the happy sound they make and so they pretty much tell you how they feel and what's going on with them. One day, Dad brought home a large fiberglass airline shipping container and he used it to build a little rectangular pond in the backyard. Now they had a real place to swim, and we had our bathtub back. Martha and Petunia would slide into the water, wiggle their tails and quack “happy, swimming” that told us that they liked the water. Sometimes we filled up the Radio Flyer with water and gave them rides around the backyard. I honestly don't know if they liked that so much, because I can't remember the sound that they made while we were tugging them slowly around the yard. But being good sports, they tolerated it. Those days back then felt endless, but in reality they were all too brief. It's a good thing to grow up with animals, which I was lucky to do. Martha and Petunia still live in my heart, and to this day in my mind's ear, I can still hear the sounds they made and what they were saying to me. About the photo: my twin sisters with Martha and Petunia and the Radio Flyer, in our backyard circa 1970.

My dream of being a private detective is the fault of Nancy Drew and, a bit more indirectly, my mother. I come from an avid family of readers, and my mother decided to pass this trait on to her children. Thus, when I was about six, my mother decided to convince—force—me to read a series she had loved when she was my age: the Nancy Drew series. While I was quite reluctant at first, meaning I fought tooth and nail against my mother, I had eventually given in. Sometimes I wish I had ended up hating the books, simply to avoid giving her the smug satisfaction of being right; regardless, I fell in love with those books. Nancy Drew was a smart, resourceful, tough, resilient heroine, and I devoured her adventures. While most kids spent their Saturday mornings watching cartoons or sleeping, I was begging my parents to take me to the library. I simply could not get enough of the rich and vibrant life of Nancy Drew. My deep love for Nancy Drew and her adventures culminated in my wanting to be just like her. So, I decided to perfect my detective skills. For instance, I decided to improve my shadowing skills—i.e. stalking—and followed family members around while taking notes. Sadly for me, their behavior was fairly mundane. Even so, no matter how dull I found them, I knew that a good detective must persist. This resulted in my developing a strong drive and determination. I began to grow restless, which is when it finally happened—my first case. I was beyond ready. So, at the ripe old age of ten-years-old, I decided the student had become the master. When I informed my parents of this, I was met with fake enthusiasm. Sure, their words said to have fun and be careful, but their tone of voice conveyed the truth. They did not take me seriously. Who would not take the four-foot-seven kid with missing teeth seriously? Clearly, I was a hard-boiled detective ready for whatever twists or turns my case might throw at me. This particular case came from a neighborhood friend, Drew, who needed help finding her missing ginger cat. Naturally, she asked me for my assistance. Ever the eager detective, I jumped at the opportunity. So, we set out on our bikes to canvas the neighborhood. After a while, it became clear to me that searching for clues on other people's property, or trespassing as some might call it, was probably not the best way to find a lead. Instead, we questioned potential witnesses and started with her mother. We asked her when she had last seen the cat, if her neighbors had ever had any problems with the cat, and if she could remember anything suspicious. To everything she said she did not know; however, I noticed she would not meet our eyes and kept fidgeting with her jewelry during questioning. I may not have known much about psychology at the time, but even I could tell that our questions made her uneasy. Unfortunately, interviewing our neighbors did not yield much luck either. They either did not know anything about her cat or thought we were selling something. After hours of interviewing and searching the neighborhood, I ended up looking on my own. It was then that I had finally found my first lead. Another one of my neighborhood friends told me that he spotted something somewhat resembling ginger fur through a hole in his neighbor's fence. As I looked for myself, I realized the animal was a cat that had a distinctive patch of fur on its forehead, matching the description Drew had given. I had actually managed to find Drew's cat! Unfortunately, I did not find her cat alive. The neighbor, in whose backyard the cat was in, was the owner of a particularly volatile pit-bull. Even from my obstructed view, it was clear the dog had gotten to the cat. With this sad information in hand, I realized I now had to tell Drew. I contemplated lying to her, but I knew that if it were my cat, I would want to know the truth. So, I rode my bike over to her house and told her what I had found. I explained whose backyard the cat was found in and described the distinct patch of white and orange fur on the cat's forehead. After I had finished telling her what happened, she was pretty upset, so I let her grieve in peace and went home. It was not until months later that I learned that the cat I found was not Drew's cat at all. Apparently, her cat had accidentally consumed rat poison that one of her neighbors had set out. Her mother found the dead cat and decided to bury it in the woods near our houses. Instead of telling her daughter the truth, she simply told her the cat had run away in order to spare her feelings. Though my first and only case turned out to be a complete bust, I never forgot the impact that case and the Nancy Drew books had on my life. I still have the curiosity and determination I fostered in those days. I owe a large part of my childhood to that teen sleuth and I will always be grateful to her.

My mother clung to my small palm as if her life depended on it while staring up at my father, who was screaming furiously, shaking his clenched fists in front of him. “You never do anything right!” he yelled. As my mother backed up shakily, she ran right into the dining table, bringing me along with her in a fierce crash. I stared doe-eyed at my father then back at my mother. Why is daddy so mad at mommy? His screams became louder and his movements more forceful as he thrust his hand forward towards my mother's throat. Terrified, I let go of my mother's hand, running towards the bedroom. I pulled the covers over my head and wrapped my arms over my shaking legs, rocking myself back and forth. Tears began streaming down my face, but I was too afraid to make any noise. “Please stop!” I heard my mother's frail voice yell out. Slap! The crack of skin against skin echoed through the walls. That was when I heard my mother call out for me. I froze, my body still shielded under the blanket. “Help me!” I heard her scream again. I started to cry even harder, yet my body remained paralyzed at the corner of the bed. Her incessant cries for my help could be heard through the breaking glass and clinking furniture. After what seemed several hours, the chaos in the other room subsided. I stayed put even though it started to feel humid under the blanket and I was breathing in hot air. I knew my mother entered the room when I felt the bed dip. Whimpers racketed from her body. I peeked out of the covers and crawled over to her side, obediently. She looked down at me, a tear spilling from her eye. “Why didn't you do anything,” she says in her mother tongue. I cast my eyes downward and shrug. I had nothing to say to her. It was true: why hadn't I done anything? I could hear my father still yelling. He was crying along with his violent outbursts. That always confused me. He never apologized. It was never his wrongdoing. He was the one inflicting the bruises that painted my mother's body, yet he cried. It made me wonder if it was because he was hurting too. That was the day I felt true powerlessness. As a young child I didn't know what that meant, but fear controlled me when my body refused to move from its place. I was distraught over the daunting question my mother had asked me. I could have yelled for him to stop. I could have called someone for help. I could have stopped him. The last thought haunted me. And it made me wonder if it was my fault. Surely, my mother wouldn't ask me that if there was truly nothing I could've done. My father should've been the bad guy. But I was the biggest let down— to myself. I was a bystander in my own home. I wanted more than anything to protect my mother. But I was still afraid, which meant I was useless. I was angry. Not only with my father, but with myself the most. Reflecting back on this day as a young adult, I realize that so much was out of my control. The systemic, abusive struggle between my parents was not something I could have alleviated or fixed. Yet, to this day, I still seek the answer to a question I fully understand provides me with no refuge, no reward: was there anything I could've done?

A wonderful feeling of joy would come to me by opening the gray door of my grandparents' big house, which grew small as I grew big. We had to travel to my Grandparents house for about one hour, and I clearly remember that we had flown over this beautiful, green and full of life oak forest which was followed by a pink lake. The best part of the trip was guiding the taxi driver to the allies that would lead to their house. After opening the gray metallic door, I would look for my grandma. She would run outside of the house with a big smile on her face and would greet us with hugs and kisses with a big excitement and joy. The house I will forever have embedded in my mind is located in Tehran, Iran at the end of a blind alley. My Grandparents' house looks quiet and serene, surrounded by its own garden. The front door of the house is connected with the garden by a stone path made of limestone which is smooth to step on. Along both sides of the path were some pink and purple wildlings. The garden is bordered by a circle of different types of tall, green trees and beautiful, colorful flowers which made the garden smell amazing at all times. As far as I can recall red roses were in the garden at all times. The dew would shine on top of the red petals every morning. The first time I heard that roses bloom once or twice a year I was surprised. I remember I would spend the afternoons enjoying the coziness and happiness of the living room, “red room” as everyone calls it. Someone outside the family cannot guess which room it is. Because the room is no longer covered in red velvet wallpaper and a new life has been given to the furniture. They don't have small red roses on top of the milky background anymore. Instead, it is covered in a light blue velour. There is still evidence of red in the room. A medium-sized painting of red rose bush is hanging on a white plaster wall. The painting is in bright colors but somehow it is still dark. It is framed in dark wood. Every color in it is bold and it is painted with such precise lines that it almost looks like a photo. The lines are curved, yet sharply defined. I never saw the “red room” in its original state. I didn't like drinking any kind of tea but the only time that I would be the afternoons in the “red room”. My grandma would bring me a special one. It was lighter than the other ones. The best part about it was the sweets next to it. Carrot cake, banana bread, apple pie or petibor biscuits, didn't matter which one, they all tasted differently in the red room. They tasted wonderful. After having tea I would invite my dolls for a picnic. I would sit under a short tree with feather-like leaves in lavender, next to the swimming pool. The main element of the tea party was my small set of rose teapots and cups. They were similar to a set that grandma has. I would spend hours under the shadow of that tree. My grandma would make a big jar of lemonade with big pieces of ice, it was the colour of summer sun. It would steal the heat from my sole. Sometimes she would play with me while drinking the cold lemonade and she would tell me stories. These days when we fly to Tehran there are no signs of green forest or pink lake. I don't need to guide the taxi driver though the allies. He has the destination address on his phone. Still, sometimes I show them the way. They may think I'm weird but I don't care. I like to go through the allies as fast as possible and get to that grey door. These days grandma doesn't run out in the garden when we arrive. She observes me running through the gate and then garden with a warm smile on her face from a large window of the red room. Although the garden still has green plants, it is not as green as it one day was. Once in a while bushes of roses appear, and grandma asks someone to pick a few for the red room. Grandma doesn't pour tea anymore. So no one brings me a special one. I still drink tea in the red room but without sweets. Grandma forgets how many she had and it is not good for her so anyone who pours tea doesn't bring sweets with it. Grandma points at the dired short tree with feather-like leaves in lavender and tells me “do you remember the picnics you did under that tree?” After having a bitter sip of the tea she points at the short tree again and asks, “do you remember the picnics you did under that tree?”. I miss everything about the tea and chocolate cake in that room but I prefer drinking bitter tea with her in the red room to anywhere else. I enjoy listening to her stories over and over just like the old days in the garden. The roses are not always around, we should enjoy their company while they are still around.

‘crink crink' a pink Ladybird zoomed past the Renault Duster. “That's the fifth… no…sixth bicycle that overtook me today” told himself the sexagenarian who considered himself the soundest driver in the whole mortal realm as his car's speedometer never read a two-digit number starting with five. As he took the sharp turn near the placard that read “Faculty Parking Only”, a genuine frustration started clouding his face. A maroon Toyota had occupied the last parking slot. He muttered…probably cast some wicked spell. A crow from nowhere popped up and caricatured the Toyota's misfortune on its bonnet. As he ushered through the iron gate covered with Bougainvillea, like a wig on a carcass, he noticed an array of pink-violet-yellow shrubs lined along the corridor. He knew what it meant. The dark passage with faint yellow glows at the ends, like a prehistoric cave, occasionally got a flowery welcome like this. Today is a special day. Today is the day he retires. As he slowly turned his cabin key from 12 O'clock to 3 O'clock, a sudden gloom surged. For the last forty years, this archaic wooden door had been pushed open with a loud ‘thud'. But today it felt a bit too heavy. A sloppy hand swooped it open with a nudge. Resting his leather-satchel on the table, slowly, he walked up to the chair he held so dearly. He swiveled it around. The gold-plated Pierre Cardin was peeping through a pen stand. He reached for it. If only someone could endow this artifact with life, it would have written a story of its own. From signing the first pay-check to signing the last thesis, all those tender moments tucked inside this 6'inch metal body. He came out of his cabin and walked towards the lab. As he slid the heavy iron bolt and pushed the door, a gust of pungent stench hit his lungs. Ah! The smell of old books. He inhaled deeply. He recalled the day his first student stepped inside this room for the first time and how hard he tried to swallow the utter frustration. It was a mere storehouse then. He fondly remembered his last two students, probably because they were the age of his own two daughters. By the window, Aman had his desk. Done with updating his Facebook feed and editing the photos from his latest trip, which would shortly hit his WhatsApp status, Aman's cursor would hover over Amazon's latest shoe collection. Manoj was someone he could actually count on. He turned left. With circles around some dates, a 2018 calendar was fluttering. By its side, the chalk-board on the wall still had those scribbles by Aman. The board's frame was barely visible through the avalanche of sticky-notes glued to it. He picked up a green one. It read ‘Rajan Plumber' with a contact number. He grinned. An abrupt screech along the corridor alerted him. It reminded him of something. While bringing up two daughters rowing through adolescence to adulthood, he realized his students should also enjoy a fair share of privacy. So, one fine morning he came up with a radical solution. Instead of entering the lab like an unwelcome guest, he would stomp his boots while in the vicinity of the lab so that the students would get a message -'the terror is here, cover your misdeeds'. A fancy wall décor hung just over the entrance door. He remembered the day it came. 5th September 2017. His siesta being interrupted with a loud hammering, he peeped through the window. To his utmost surprise, Manoj was nailing a hook to hang this décor, and Aman was decorating a "Happy Teacher's Day" iced chocolate cake with candles. He was so lost down the memory lane, that a soft ‘Vasu' from Professor Samuel couldn't bring him back. ‘Vasu…Vasu? Let's go for a coffee' said his old friend, this time with a gentle tap on the shoulder. The clock struck one. As he turned the lunchbox lid slowly, his wife's earlier remarks this morning painted a broad smile on his lips. "Guess what's for the finale? The one I made you the very first day”. Condensed vapor from the lid dripped on the chapatis. As he reached for the second compartment, he already knew what it contained. Prawn-malai curry. And he was right. By the time he cast a final look at his empty cabin, the sun had long taken his farewell. A cool, soothing breeze passed by. He slowly marched towards the exit. A heavy leg and a heavier heart. Relaxing his back at the driving seat, he got lost once again. He had been around for forty years. So many things had changed and so many didn't. New faces, new bricks, old roads, old rocks. life went on. Like a cigarette. You light it up, and its journey to an inevitable end starts, burning slowly. Soon a layer of grey covers the top. You stroke it gently. The ashes get carried away with the wind. A new front comes up. Same with us. Time passes by. Slowly. Old days fade away, their memories lost in the deep. Comes a new beginning. Every day. You actually don't retire, you re-join. For a new cause, a new purpose.

(this image by the amazing artist Pierre Abraham Rochat inspired today's story) I was the happiest kid growing up. Or at least that's how I remembered it - it's nearly impossible to focus on all the negative memories when you grow up in such a beautiful place as I did. The beauty is subjective though. There's always a lot of crap - literal shit - when you live on a farm. Crap from chickens, crap from pigs. There's dust everywhere, a side effect of having dirt roads and rickety vehicles that throw up the dust as they churn their way slowly down the road. The early mornings are cold, with dew settling on every surface like a layer of humid skin. There's no mistaking it, life on a farm isn't like what the fairytales describe. After all, who wants to write about the nuances of everyday life? But it was these moments that rounds out the scene, fleshes out the tale and grounds everything in reality. So I'm doing you a favor by telling you about chicken shit. This isn't a fairytale hamlet, this is the real place where I spent a good portion of my life, and I kind of miss it - the dirt roads and early morning dew and all, but not the shit. The summer heat was unbearable. The sun seemed like the heat source of a furnace, casting golden rays that baked the clay by the tiny river. The ground cracked under the heat, like the yellow crust of pies, dusted over by the dust like a layer of flour. the adults sweated under the sun as they planted and weeded the crops. From a distance the scene is picturesque - quaint, if you will - the image of rural life straight from the pages of a National Geographics magazine. Close up it's the scent of sweat, the buzz of bugs from the fields, and the way that clothes stick to sweaty bodies. The very air tasted of warmth, it draped heavily over the people in the fields, and pressed oppressively on sweltering trees. The occasional breeze offered some relief as it churned the heavy air, lifting sweat soaked clothes and whisking away the blanket of heat that enveloped the figures bent over the fields. By late summer even the air itself has a golden tint, dyed the same hue of heavy yellow as the sun's rays. The crops are finally readying for harvest as they slowly turn the same shade as the sunlight they've been soaking up. Everywhere you look there is a sea of gold, shifting in the yellow colored breeze. The tips of the plants move in synchronized waves, the ceaseless motion as they bow under the grazing touches of the wind creates ripples on that vast golden ocean. A thousand swaying plants shuffled their leaves and whispered to each other, and the sound of their voices scratched the air as they narrated the sway of yellow waves. The dragonflies are especially busy this time around. They hover over ponds, occasionally a tap at the water will cause circular ripples to break the calm surface. Startled by its own distorted reflection, the dragonfly darts away, the rays from the high noon sun glinting like golden sparkles from their shiny bodies. But perhaps the most memorable, and the place that made my entire memory of summer yellow, was the field of rapeseed tucked just under the shade of a hill. Their bright yellow flowers looked almost unrealistic, so strong was their color that the field of flowers looked like spillage from an artist's palette. I can still see it now, just behind my eyelids, that picturesque field, that unmixed yellow, and the thousands of yellow petals like specks of oil paint dropped over the greenery beheath And here I am, an entire continent away from that field of yellow flowers, from the golden air that colored everything it touched. I miss that yellow colored memory of summer, the scenery that accompanied me as seasons changed. But I know too late that it will never be as it was, because even if the scenery didn't change, I know that I did. I'm no longer that same child chasing the sparkle of light bouncing off of dragonflies, no longer am I that kid who traced shifting golden waves before harvest. Who am I really? I could never give an answer. What I do know is that what is lost is lost forever. But least in my memory of summer I preserve that moment the yellow rapeseed flowers bloomed, bright as a Van Gogh painting, and swaying in an eternal summer breeze.

Walking is hard, for tall weeds hide the bleached white broken bones of skeletons, incomplete, with ribs and other parts sticking up, waiting to cut into my bare feet. My breath runs and hides, while my heart jumps around in its chest cave. I part some weeds only to find the complete skeleton of a woman. I know it to be female, for down by the legs, half in and half out of her is the tiny skeleton of a babe being born, frozen by fire during its delivery. Time has driven away the sweet-smelling grey ash of those burned beyond the knowing of the soul that once inhabited them. Purple and blue flowers grow through the foundation stones of our fallen temple. A deep dark hole is all that marks the holy tomb at the temple's rear. I pick some of the creeping flowers, say a blessing, and throw them down. Swallowed up by the blackness around them, I do not hear them land. Houses of wood have left no proof of their being, except in my memory. I feel four hundred ghosts follow me as I take the long walk back to the sea, to the boat that will carry me away. I do not say goodbye, nor do I look back as the motor starts. I hope these images of my homeland can be erased and replaced with the ones that fill my heart.

Once when I was younger my mother dropped me off at school. I was given neither lunch nor lunch money and mind you, I hadn't eaten that morning. My school's cafeteria food was unhygienic and my mother never let me eat there. That day, my mom told me she was going to come back to drop lunch for me. I was pacified and with a kiss to her cheek, I skipped off into the school building. That day went by fast and lunch soon came. I sat in my classroom, waiting expectantly and full of trust that my mother would bring my lunch. I waited till lunch was over, yet she never came. Fifth period came and went, sixth, seventh and finally, last period. The closing bell rang. My mother came finally. She entered my classroom holding a brown paper bag filled with food. Full of disappointment and anger (and hunger), I walked past her without saying a word. She turned and followed and we walked down to the car in silence. We got in and she began apologizing for bringing my lunch late. I was really mad at this point. I tried my best to keep my words reigned in but they burst out like a broken dam. I remember complaining to hell and back that day. Just last week, my mother told me how much she loved me. This is something she does frequently, but this time, she reminded me of a time when I was younger. A day she “forgot” to bring my lunch. She told me of how she didn't have money that day, how she went to work looking for who could lend her some money to feed her child. She went to this person and that, begging, and she eventually found a helper. Unfortunately, she did so long after my lunchtime. She told me how she immediately left work and drove to the nearest fast-food restaurant before driving to my school to deliver my promised lunch—she had no idea she was late. My mother, bless her soul, didn't have to continue. I remembered every single word I said that day; how she didn't care about me, how she always disappointed. Everything came back, clear as water from a spring. I was full of shame. I had nothing to say. No words could portray the remorse I felt and I cried that day, pained and full of self-hatred. My mother hugged me and told me she knew I didn't understand that day. And she didn't explain either because she thought me to too young to know or worry about our financial situation. “I'm not telling you any of this to make you feel bad. I know firsthand that hunger can make anybody mean.” I couldn't even laugh at her attempt to joke. “I'm telling you because I know that one day, you'll be a mother. So when your daughter—or son—doesn't understand, you too can have that patience.” All these things she whispered into my hair. Even till tomorrow, I will never forget the sacrifices my mother made for me, what I put her through for it. My ingratitude. I still feel that disappointment in myself whenever I think about it, and though it was very hard, I forgave myself. I learnt the value of those words “Thank you”, even for every little thing she does for me and I will never take her, or her love for granted again.

The wind roared around the house like an enraged beast, rattling shutters and breaking tree branches as it did. Claws of icy air fought their way inside through the damaged panes and worn-out frame of my old farmhouse window. I curled into a tight ball under my blankets; piled as they were, it still wasn't enough to keep out the cold. I shivered as a particularly strong gust made the entire house groan. Sleep eventually claimed me, despite the bone-deep chill. I dreamt of arctic blizzards. Outside, the night's tempest howled on.

Orange. Pain. Screaming. Thats all I can see, feel and hear right now. Pain. Orange. Screaming. I try to gather my wits about me. I see a woman standing over me. Screaming at me. I don't know what her issue is. I didn't do anything wrong. How dare she yell at me! Pain. Why does my whole body ache and hurt? Orange. Fire. Now i see it. The orange is a vast fierce fire looming all around me. I don't like it here. It's loud and it hurts here. I close my eyes. Accept and welcome the darkness. White. Sterile white. All consuming white. Its quiet. No pain. And its cool. Not hot. I like it here. Everything is still hazy. But i finally have peace. I hear beeping. Beep. Beep. Beep. It's a stead beeping noise. Beep. Beep. Beep. Its peaceful though. I close my eyes. Sleep. Rest. I enter the darkness once more. Blue. All I see is blue now. All consuming blue. Its hot here though. But it's a nice heat. Its covers me gently. Wraps me in its warmth. I hear a noise. Tweet. Tweet. Tweet. I see a bird fly past me. Tweeting as it goes. It calm here. Quiet. Unlike the orange place. I like the blue place. Something hit's my face. It doesn't hurt though. Drip. Drip. Drip. It feels wet. Like a tear drop from my vast blue surrounding's. It's nice here. I close my eyes. Enjoying the peace and gentle drops of water kissing my face. Once again the darkness envelops me. Black. Black is all I see. Oh and pain! The pain is back! Slap! Slap! Slap!  The pain comes when I hear the slaps. I look up to see what is causing me this horrible pain. Bad choice. The pain hits my face and and I put my head back down. I fear the darkness now. I don't like this place. The black place is bad. I miss the blue and white place. I close my eyes and cry. But yet again the darkness grabs me and pulls me into its clutches. Red. Red is all I see now. I don't know where I am. All I know is that it's freezing here. I shiver. I don't enjoy it here. To cold. There is also a splitting pain in my head. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Agghh. It hurts. My eyes open. Now its gray. All gray. Water now hits my face just like the blue place. I enjoy this. But my head makes it hard to enjoy anything. The water drops down from the heavens and kisses my face. I see a man standing over me. Or maybe it's a teenager. Yeah it's a young man. Maybe 16 or 17 years of age. He smirks. I see a shoe. It rushes at me. Now all I can see is black. Im floating. Darkess is everywhere. I enjoy this now. No more pain. No more fire. No more slapping. No more yelling. No more Beeping. No more rain. No more fire. No more birds. No more orange, white, blue, red, gray. Just black. Black everywhere. All consuming black.

At age 4, Sarah learnt a new word. Yesterday. Amazed with her own accomplishment, she used the largest word in her arsenal wherever she deemed fit. And so, like the Beatles song, at once, the word too lost its individuality. The word became synonymous with simple past. Regardless of how many days, months or years an event dated back, for Sarah, it always happened yesterday. "Where is the snowman I built yesterday?" "I want the short hair like yesterday." "Mamma, why were you crying yesterday?" Sarah's odd behavior didn't seem to bother her parents much. Except for the time of the day, they met for breakfast and agreed to play hide and seek, Grace The Mother, pretty much kept herself locked in her room. Jonathan, The Father, was always too tired from all the races he had lost. Plus, Jonathon had always been a little on the slower side. Took his time to register changes around him. So, it was only natural that, on a lazy summer afternoon, it was Sarah who discovered Grace floating still and stale in her own red ocean. The funeral was an open casket event. At first, Sarah was a little overwhelmed. After all, it was the longest she had seen her mother before she vanished behind a door. Had she always looked this pale? The same freckles that Sarah has on her chin? Gashes on her wrists? Should Sarah get one too? Is this how they are gonna play hide and seek now? However, appalled by the stillness of their new game, she went on to chase butterflies around the garden. Jonathan found it difficult to explain death to a 4-year-old. He wasn't sure he fully understood either. Everyone said they looked such a happy couple. Wine swirling in glasses. Laughter orchestrated to perfection. Pigs canoodling in blankets. Walls christened with her sweat stains... "Where is Mommy? She was here yesterday." Was it the kid? Grace was never too keen on having a child. Or was she? Jonathon can't quite recall. He had way too many Brewskis that night. He had missed the rerun of The Sopranos. He recalls thinking of the lady who sat across the bar. Quite the fine young Adriana. Lighting cigarettes faster than a wildfire. Tinsel twinkles twirling ‘round the vermouth…. Was it another guy? Just as his horse finishes last of the lot, Jonathan feels betrayed. Has to be another guy. Explains a lot of the shrugs, the nods and staring blankly at a piece of paper just as blank as her last day since the Art School. O, the heresy! As some forgotten flower from some forsaken relative crunches under his feet, Jonathan feels angry. And for all the right reasons. He rifles around the house for some sort of evidence. A shirt that wasn't his. A lone pair of shoe maybe. Glasses. Or at least his old harmonica that he can pretend to forget for now. Just for now. Before he burns everything to get rid of her scent, the feel of her touch. Only to remember he never held on to it anyways... "Papa, why do I see a me in the mirror?" His mother was right all along. "Grace is not the kind you take the long road with". He should have known better. His friends always said that he married way too quickly. Should have let it breathe. Sow his oats maybe. "She certainly sowed hers"- chuckled one of them.... When the door creaked open, Sarah was busy staring at the night sky and wondering if they all were inside the underbelly of a giant dragon. And so, for a second, she too mistook the woman, salacious in red, for her mother. The woman, still dizzy from the promises of a Friday night, asked Jonathan where her mother was... "Mommy was yesterday."

As a little girl, I used to have my cake and eat it, too. I was learning to play the piano, speak English and dance. A homely, diligent girl, thought my parents. Gotcha! – thought I and always joined my friends whenever they climbed trees or jumped over the kindergarten fence. I knew, or rather sensed, that once I found something exciting, I had to cling to it. I remember often coming home bruised and covered in mud, in jeans torn on the knees. One summer evening I recall especially vividly: a half-sleeping village, our dilapidated country house, grandmother reading a gossip newspaper, grandad in front of the TV watching Russian football team lose yet again and 7-year-old me, brushing burs from tangled hair and trying to mend a broken bicycle wheel. That day my older friends dared me to ride a bike to a neighboring town. There was no particular motive to it, except for seeking adventures for our never-resting bums. Still, a tiny daredevil inside me could not take my weak conscientious ‘no' for an answer, so I went. The trip cost me four hours, a crazy runaway from a rabid dog, a painful fall over the handlebar straight into the bur bushes and grandad's strict scolding. The following day, however, I was a local hero, to whom all the boys up to twelve (which was, well, cool) brought candy and ice cream. In hindsight, the satisfaction was worth the trouble. I always bet on black. I am eager to act recklessly without so much as a hint of a reward. At middle school, I caught a common disease called extreme romantic light-headedness. A straight-A student juggling various clubs, circles and class activities, I suddenly felt an insurmountable urge to skip classes and fall in love with some reckless and dangerous six-grader. At a celebration of yet another faceless accomplishment of our even more faceless school, I threw a crumpled piece of paper with ‘I love you' scribbled on it in my horrific handwriting in the middle of a crowd of boys. Why did I do this? No idea. I was neither rebellious nor stupid. Imagine my surprise when a couple of weeks later my classmate, an unfortunate catcher of the note, came forward and confessed to loving me back! That hit me like a truck, but like a pink one delivering flowers or Teddy bears. Unexpectedly, we got along quite well and went out for three years. He was my first romance and is my sweetest teenage memory. I always bet on black. I lack judgement and tend to rush headlong in whatever venture is up. When it comes to choosing our occupation, hardly ever are we devoid of doubt or reservation. That was exactly the case with me. Although passionately in love with my piano, I could not imagine giving up literature or physics. Apparently, it all got mixed up in my head or aliens fiddled with my brains, because somehow I decided to major in economics. Perhaps, I did not know what my vocation was, or maybe it was fate. I, however, would attribute it to Irony, all-pervasive goddess of bad decisions and embarrassing memories. Anyway, I needed to choose a university. Which one would a sane and sensible person opt for? Right, the one farthest from home, with worst dormitories, most expensive campus and rudest students. Oh, wait, my bad, that's just what I have chosen! Frankly, it is not as bad as it sounds, except for yes, it is. However, I have taken up my music practice again, met some amazingly creative and energetic people and undoubtedly toughened up for what life has in store. Moscow, where I live and study now, is supposed to be a city of prospects and possibilities, or so I am told. For one, I am ready to explore all of them and seize my chances. I always bet on black. I make spontaneous decisions without properly weighing all sides to the matter. When I met the love of my life, my initial reaction was fear and self-consciousness. He was older, smarter, funnier – cutting to the chase, out of my league. Between two options - settling for someone else or setting out on a journey of personal development - I chose neither and treated the situation as a challenge. My inner controversial self craved for acknowledgement of its existence, so I caved and made a move. By a happy coincidence, this man was keen on riddles and brainteasers, which helped him tolerate the nuisance of… well, me. This way, out of stubbornness and maybe just a pinch of sheer stupidity, I have found a companion in life and a mind as bizarre and curious as my own. I always bet on black. As Tennessee Williams put it, ‘Luck is believing that you are lucky'. To some extent it is true, and I am proud that the way I have navigated through life is mine, if not good or decent. I have always been keen on marking my own path, and I take joy in reminiscing of how I embarrassed myself or made stupid mistakes along the way. After all, it truly is marvelous that each turn we take on the road leads us to who we are. As for me, by far I have only learnt one thing for sure. I will always bet on black.