A Sepia Coloured Photograph
I remember my grandparents' house like a sepia coloured photograph. The time of the summers we spent there stayed with me like memories of a child and later a teenager, even though I visited the house many times later, when times changed. I still observe those memories through the warm yellow summer air when everybody prayed for rain that wouldn't come and when the warm wind carried dust among tall acacias. Then the house was full of people. I remember it's cool rooms with rows and rows of books: Plato, Hegel, Spinoza, math textbooks, Dostoevsky. Years ago my mum brought Dostoevsky home for me, but others are still pretty much there. There were two book cases full of bottles of juice and jars of marmalade my grandma made. The house stands on the main street, facing away from it. I remember one afternoon when my mother put me to bed and I didn't sleep because I would jump out of bed and run to the window every time I heard a horse drawn cart out in the street. E...