Thirty Two
I am nearing the end of my one year term of exile. Though without calendar or having a hint of the date, I can sense it. The position of the sun, the seasonal change in the direction of the tropical breezes, the length of the day, all suggest a return to the season when the Gulfstream jet first landed on Mrs. Winthrop’s paradise of torment.
Plus, Lunda visits more and more and I am chagrined when Bai not only encourages her participation in my discipline, but offers the expertise of her experience. This bodes that the promised year has lapsed and that some form of transition nears.
I find it fortunate that Lunda, being young and energetic, prefers to use the longer cane and swing it with more forceful strokes. This provides ironic respites for my feet.
Yes, Lunda now attends
