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Childhood Summers| Maham Ali


I take another look at the beach and commit it to memory. I don't just want the photographs I want to bottle the scent and have seashells to touch. I want to recall the feel of the sand between my toes and the clarity of the ocean. I want to be able to come here in my dreams. The waves roll in white tipped, spreading themselves like fine lace over the beach after they crash in their soft way. There is nothing noisy about them, yet they have sound. Perhaps to me it is more like the music of my childhood summers so long ago with the people I have loved and lost. If I close my eyes I can hear my mother calling me for lunch, my father rustling the newspaper as he turns a fresh leaf. In my closed hand appears a red bucket and spade, there is nothing to worry me, no fears...

 
 
 
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