THE MANGO WINDS
The Mango Winds If we are the sum of our memories perhaps the pattern of our lives is set in childhood. Children cling to the familiar. Even something broken beyond repair. Separation; a harsh unfamiliar word too awkward for the tongue of a four year old. Bitter as the most vile medicine. ‘Come along love, come along. Hurry up.’ No time for questions less for answers. A journey stretched ahead; the magnitude far beyond my comprehension. Three days and two nights I sat, slept and clung to my mother or sister. The train stops, starts, rattles along, shunts and chants its monotonous song. Big brave girl, big brave girl, big, brave girl. Only I’m not. Sooty smoke tickles my nose, I like the smell. We alight for a meal. Better than yesterday’s stale sandwiches. We drink milky tea from thick white cups stamped with the railway emblem. My sister points and asks mum. ‘Is it so people can’t steal them?’ Mum gives a funny scrunched up smil...