1992
Anna-Louise says that rain in the morning is a reminder of something lost and forgotten, a breath of air, a small corner of peace. She says this as she dips a silver spoon into the steaming cup of tea, taints it with warm milk and swirls in small circles before she raises it to her lips and takes a soft sip. The kitchen window is dotted with dripping water, running down in broken lines, while further into the garden the leaves shake to the rhythm of the cold breeze. It is a cold Harare morning, in the winter of 1992, the long tar roads run, chasing, winding and intersecting each other as they make their way across the city. The nurses in white uniforms blowing against their swinging calves, dark blue sweaters and boisterous conversation walking across the street, stop in mid sentence to illustrate a point, signal with their hands and break off into laughter.
“You never think you can lose something like that.”She says as she looks across the table. “Lose what?" I respond circling my keys around my forefinger. She walks up to the cabinet and places a handful of biscuits into a white saucer, picks one up and dips it into her tea. She does this slowly, making sure only half the biscuit is submerged, before her gaze returns to the scene of the kitchen and then to me as she shrugs and cracks half a smile.
"Misplace your sense of peace. That you can wake up one day and realize it’s slipped tenderly away.”
