When she was two we would take walks in the stroller just before she didn’t need it any more and could fly where ever she chose to dash off to.  She loved to use her legs pumping at the swings, springing from the floorboards in her Johnny jump up, wheeling around in her walker at six months.  Propulsion was her middle name. 

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How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry