Arun ji says he likes to be out travelling in the scorching sun. I used to too.
Now I prefer 22 degrees centigrade. Nothing like the California sky at this time of the year.
The cherry tree across Amma’s window in York is beautiful. But she wants to come home.
I am happy she has a home to go to.
I feel at home everywhere. But I do want to be there where the temperature is 22 degrees and the sky is blue. And it is spring.
Someone waits for me there.
He sends me poetry, missing me. Speaks of death with an urgency that is not easy to put out of my mind.
I wonder if he speaks of himself or me.
Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end,
Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,
And before I know it, a year is gone.And I never see my old friends face,
For life is a swift and terrible race,
He knows I like him just as well,
As in the days when I rang his bell.And he rang mine but we were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game,
Tired of trying to make a name.
“Tomorrow” I say! “I will call on Jim
Around the corner, yet miles away,
The world will move at its own pace. Slowly- much more slowly than I would have it do.
While time will slip out of my hands.
Faster than I would have it.