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December 14, 2010

I have two distinct childhood memories related to my birthday that I can claim as my own. The two that have escaped repetitive memory colonisation of the obsessive narrator and self appointed guardian of the family shrine that goes by the name of my mother – and the equally persuasive work of family albums. One is of the snow, the other of special greeting from a far away place that newer came a day too late.

Was I really looking forward to snow that much? The funny thing is I can’t really tell. But I do remember waking up on a certain December morning, my eyes half open, flickering as the shutters in the opening sequences of the Man with a movie camera. For a few moments, the sleepy eyes could not really make out whether the blurred whiteness was actually snow or simply the roof of the neighbouring houses, clouded by morning frost or fog. Or desire.

This year, the snow came early.

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