When The Table Turns

There was a young lady I worked with some years ago. She came to work with neatly packed sandwiches lovingly prepared by her mother. She was open about the stress her mother went through in making sure she had something to eat for lunch at work every single day.

At the time, I found it annoying. For crying out loud, this young lady was on placement and in her late teen. How on earth would her mother prepared lunch for her when she was old enough to cook for the whole family?

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The Colour Of Me

“Nan, look! He is black”, the little boy called the attention of his grandmother pointing to my son. My ears played a little trick on me, I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my son or something else.

There were three of them: a young lady, a boy and an older lady. The boy must be between the age of seven and eight. Presumably, the younger lady was closer to being the boy’s mum and the older lady the grandmother.

I wasn’t sure if the ladies heard the boy the first time he pointed to my son describing the colour of his skin and clearly, the boy wasn’t sure if his mum or grandmother heard him.

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The Stories I heard

I don’t recall reading bedtimes stories when growing up, but, I recall interesting stories that were told.

I remember the conversations I heard as a little girl to the folktales shared by families, neighbours and friends. Part of me contains songs, poetries and the vivid images of scary monsters painted to scare.

Imaginary plays, make-believes and visits to relatives occupied most of the summer holidays. With foods and songs, long lost friends who came around to visit each having a story to tell.

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