Insignificant others

A bridge near Kaithamukku, in TVM – with a Pala tree on one side and a vendor who sold fried peanuts on the other. I must have been 5. My dad carried me and my mum fed me peanuts during our evening walks. Once in a few bites, I also got a small piece of banana. I loved the taste of the peanut, with the banana.
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The little restaurant called Nagarjuna in Ulsoor, Blore – walking with my parents and sister during a regular weekend outing. Narrow stairs that led up to to the modest place – we ate the most delicious Andhra Chicken fry, served on little banana leaves, on a steel plate.
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My bedroom upstairs in Richmond, VA – my son, just a few weeks old sleeping right next to me. I was reading Feeling Sorry for Celia, laughing away.
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My kitchen in Columbus, Ohio. My son stood there after a long day at school and me after a long day at work. He tried to tell me something that happened at his day care that day. He was just 2 and a half and struggled with forming full sentences. He put together words in all combinations with no success. He pulled me down to his eye level and asked me if I could tell him what he wanted to tell me. His expectation from me has never been steeper. My disappointment in myself has never been worse.
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