how we tiptoed through the house,
sneaking off in the afternoons,
for a bout of rowdy play,
in the shade of a big mango.
Or, napping in the soft darkness,
half drowsy, half awake,
we listened to grandma's slow tread,
meandering through half shaded corridors.
The bedsheets were white,
I think,
each moment steeped in the cool luxury
of unrestrained, unhurried movement,
and each day,
an infinite repetition
of the last.
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