My Mother’s Hands
Through the delicate web of memories, fragments of my childhood come before my eyes. I see my mother emerging from the bathroom, her hands red
Through the delicate web of memories, fragments of my childhood come before my eyes. I see my mother emerging from the bathroom, her hands red
I’m not burdened with age, but lately I’m thinking it’s time to summarise and reflect on what I’ve done with my life. It seems like
Almost two years ago, I left Indonesia, my home country, to work abroad. The foreign country a chose was not a far, faraway place on
I found that when I reached the ripe old age of 45 I started to worry that I was running out of time. I’d look
Back in late 2016 depression hit me out of the blue. We’d recently moved house, my youngest had moved out of home and I kind
I’m 61 years old. I’m thinking about which generation I belong to. The one that sticks firmly to the pen and paper, or the one
So I landed to a new country, Ireland, new soil, new air, language and people. After 30 years of growing and setting roots in one
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