Grey Morning

That early morning light, before the dawn breaks, the house was still grey as I came down the stairs. I remember the feel of the book in my hands, the slightly corrugated feel of the cover. I lay down on the soft cushions in the hall; eagerly opening the pages of the book and watching the words swirl out. It was a book that only a seven year old would be fascinated by, ‘A Giant Collection of Facts’ that Aunty N had gifted me.

Unfortunately even at seven, I wasn’t the best morning person. The next memory I have is the jingle of the phone, the sun still wasn’t up but it had become noticeably lighter. The customary polkicha was whistling its piercing call. There was a hubbub of voices above. Charted. Emotional. Finally a choke of grief and a woman crying.

That’s when I knew. Even though the voices were hushed I understood and it was buried somewhere deep in my subconscious. Even though the truth came out only a decade and maybe more later, from that day I knew. My world had imploded and its shards were spreading across the continents. And my old life was blowing away as the sun rose to chase the grey away.