Summer Pond


Statistically the pond had few fish. When cici dipped her toes in the moss ridden waters, she felt nothing but the chill of the green water graze her toes. Every year she had grown, her feet dipped a little lower, and her hands grew less full. She’d have mangoes from the mangrove or guavas bunched in her skirt, cradled in her lap, some rolling into the pond with a plop. She’d never seen any sign of life there except the moss floating in fascinating designs. And now as the water grew murkier with details, all she held in her hand was a book while the water engulfed her legs to her calf.


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