Peering at the St. Johns Bridge, so far away

Healing takes its own sweet time. 

I am re-reading one of my two favorite novels, Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things. I’ve read it at least 7 times, and now instead of reading it from cover to cover, I often let the pages fall open where they will, read a paragraph, and examine what it offers. This day:

“Ammu gathered up her heavy hair, wrapped it around her face, and peered down the road to Age and Death through its parted strands. Like a medieval executioner peering through the tilted eye-slits of his peaked black hood at the executionee. A slender, naked executioner with dark nipples and deep dimples when she smiled. With seven silver stretchmarks from her two-egg twins, born to her by candlelight amid news of a lost war” (p. 213).