Reading Autobiography of Red last night on the the train, the story of a small, winged boy/monster and his loneliness. A flap opens and I am inside his red being.
“His mother stood at the ironing board lighting a cigarette and regarding Geryon.
Outside the pink air
was already hot and alive with cries. Time to go to school, she said for the third time.
Her cool voice floated
over a pile of fresh tea towels and across the shadowy kitchen to where Geryon stood at the screen door.
He would remember when he was past forty the dusty almost medieval smell of the screen itself as it
pressed its grid onto his face. She was behind him now. This would be hard for you if you were weak
but you’re not weak, she said and neatened his little red wings and pushed him out the door.”
Last night my cousin Mansur and I were talking about moths – I was relieved we didn’t have them at home, though I wasn’t sure why we had been spared. He keeps his cashmere sweaters in ziploc bags. Anitha puts hers in the freezers after an infestation.
On the way home, my favourite brooch, a large gold bee, left me somewhere along Green Lanes. 3 months ago I lost a dragonfly the same way. I was sad to lose these companions, but it’s only natural they would take to the air.
Today, settling down for 40 winks, I unfolded my favourite chador/shawl, a present from my cousin Dina, and saw it was full of holes.