Summer Holidays

As soon as the holidays start, we would take the train to grandfather's house, counting the passing stations, eight small sleepy ones where nothing happened and one large station bustling with passengers and noisy hawkers, passing through long stretches of rice fields in between, crossing the rattling bridges over three large rivers, finally to catch sight of grandfather waiting in the twilight, under the lamppost. A thirty minutes through the dark but familiar roads, ushered by the dancing torchlight, took us home to grandmother, smiling, hugging and kissing all over.

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