I’ve been packing recently, and in the hoards of stuff I’ve dug out, there were a couple of VHS tapes from my childhood. The most significant is one my mother recorded when I was about a year old. In it, I am a shorn-headed brown-skinned little precocious gabbler, getting quite beaten up by her elder… Continue reading Of Mama, and Baba
I remember my grandfather as he was before the dim days of the end, the illness and the slow breaking down under time of the man we all loved. Before those days of obvious decline, and yet after his days of sharp, head-of-the-family imperiousness, there was a soft middle period where he was neither broken… Continue reading of Nana Abbu.