I often imagine a warmth drenching me , specially when dusk dawns in this neighbourhood of innumerable weeping willows.

I know my mother more than she knew hers, she says. There is a dam somewhere I feel, holding back a reservoir of memories, bound by a silent oath, never to be spilled.

I often imagine the crows’ feet on her skin growing wings into those of the crows that live here, a couple of thousands of kilometers and a generation apart.  I often imagine her as a towering figure bending down to help my little palms hold on to some dreams.