I walk from the campus to the train station every evening and am reminded of my grandmother. The aromatic scent of curry leaves from the restaurants on London Road ignite my senses and, curiously, conjure images of chicken pieces in mushroom sauce. A series of associations devised by the memory of homemade chips, I theorise. A grave injustice is more thunderously sorrowful than the relief which follows in solitary outlines.

In bed as a child, I climbed her knees to slide down them. She dug a hole in the middle of my cereal in which to pour the milk, and I drank orange juice. She dried my hair for me long after it needed drying and she would kiss my head to say goodnight. She showed me the place in the forest where the trees met to form the shape of an owl. She told me that I should have told her that I was bleeding, because I should not be ashamed and she could help me. She never saw my first home.

An unconditional love, decided by a friend to have been the only one in my life, recreated briefly on the way home.

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