Winter skies and childrens eyes.
I was walking through a Berlin street yesterday with my mother. It was her first time in the city and she was admiring the soaring architecture, the wide streets and the birdsong that makes the bare, winter dried trees hum.
I love Berlin. It’s the first city I travelled to totally alone, the city I met the man I married. I admire the way it has tried to make sense of a horrific past.
As we walked down one particularly elegant residential street in the west, past a modern, post war block, my mother fell silent.
“That looks like the Colombo eye hospital,” she said. “The children’s ward was on the top floor. They threw the Tamil children from the top floor windows in the ’83 riots.”
It was the first spring day in Berlin after a long winter. The sky was bright blue and the air was warm but I felt the old, soul-emptying chill creep back into my bones.