INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Alan Britt
Lisa Schmidt
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THOSE RAINY DAYS The groggy growl of our old outdoor dog made me peek through the neglected window only to notice the leaves swirling down, swirling and swirling down the young yew tree in the once glorious and green garden. The leaves swirled down just like the dates drying up and falling off the greasy kitchen calendar. Drinking a serene coffee with a false face to our innocent children each morning and looking at your photo each night could never stop the fall of leaves or dates. Smoking cigarette after cigarette could not burn down my passion for your blue eyes, for your sweet whispers or red anger. I still want those rainy days by the lake with you, drenched by the open umbrella discarded on the muddy grass, looking like an inverted mushroom, capturing the rainwater. How we would each place a fresh flower in the umbrella and swear by the drenched kissing petals a blissful life in each other's eyes. Every rainy moment I still turn the umbrella into a mushroom to capture your memories and smiles, but now there are no flowers by the lake. Amit Parmessur, Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius
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Ann Arbor Review |
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