The dusk this evening was a different affair, for the waters came alive, as if set on fire. Almost the whole of my childhood was spent frolicking by these banks.
I still remember Papa taking my little hand in his big, reassuring one, walking me by the river.
And now, when I look back, that childhood seems like a fairy tale. The magic dust of those days will be strewn forever, with Papa often coming in my dreams to sprinkle it again.
I wish I could tell him of my becoming a travel writer, of doing what he always asked of me – dreaming, hoping. I wish I could make him read my work, make him browse through these portraits of life. I wish.
And though that’s being very wishful, that magic continues.