Confession of a Volunteer Children of the Wind scud to the door stop short and file in one by one to meet the grown up who will hear them read: mostly grandmothers wanting to help, to be close to their freshness, freckles and shyness, their pigtails and kinky hair the way they spread their bodies on the chair, a dirty fingernail pointing to the word. But mostly, framing the translucent eyes it’s their lashes long and black curving back like necks of swans that awe the old, who know their own and marvel at the gap. Nana Ollerenshaw