I was late to emigrate. Twenty-year-olds were leaving, thirty-year-olds were leaving, while my generation was sitting in the kitchen waiting for death because there was no life. But death was in no hurry, either. It was busy with something else, and didn’t promise an early visit. My grandfather left for America too late, historically, and when he arrived there, albeit as a youngster, everything had already sorted itself out nicely without him. Both of us are from a generation of laggards. These are the generations which come every other generation, and I don’t envy my grandson if I have one…”
And so he sat, thinking and waiting. It wasn’t clear what he was waiting for but what he got was a telling off from one of the omnipresent sylvans who happened to be processing by.
“So here you are
