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So here we are way up high in India where centuries of history buzz like bees. One day, when the sun has just risen over the peaks opposite, the birds crazy with joy, I am drinking coffee, which grows right on this farm by the way, hot and up high both. So happy in a chair on the porch, my wife too here with her hot drink. Our daughter with us, four and three-quarters years old. She is quiet a long time, perched on the stone wall above the misty big valley. Finally she says, “The world can’t go on forever because I can’t count forever. One, two, three, four, five, six. See . . . I would die first.”
Then in the fuckwad pay toilet in Manducherry I walk out, pay two rupees like everybody else but then the attendant falls into deep consult with two uniformed cops. I am called back told to pay five instead he is gesturing toward the ladies room I just came out of saying something something gesturing to me.
Here we are, then. Unlikely potter, one ogre, three new ducks.
We like it all close together like this, grouted with footpaths. Nurses, a city planner, five little doctors vying for space. Somebody put grass in my ear. Where’s that helpful princess?
The sun comes out and I swear these teenagers are taller than they were when it was raining. Going to nationals.
Some of us take a boat to work. Steel and glass and smells, we return to this green place to learn all the things a stick can be. Sword, staff, mast. Stethoscope, spoon, magic wand. Healers live here, that’s for sure. Where’s that bike pump?