Memories of a convoluted past

Old piece, originally written in longhand, found it lying around... Cutpasting it, unedited:

Some days I bear the burden of a thousand suns, and the words flee away, for fear of being charred to dust.
Memories… they cloud my mind… Raindrops wash them away?
Memories of hot summer afternoons in a haunting town, now dead. Even ghosts wouldn’t live there anymore.
I remember, the mirror on the parapet, and my uncle looking into it, as he lathered his cheeks and neck.
Three wheels being pushed around in circles and the screams in the courtyard. “Wheeeee”.
My old grandmother, watching over us. So old that she didn’t seem to get any older. She squatted with a hunch, singing her favourite song in her concerned voice. Dirt inside a Beautiful box. And a beautiful cover on top. What’s the point of this?
Two birds, thankfully distant, singing slightly off key.
“Krichikoo, krichikoo” – the hand pump’s worthless attempt at melody.
The distant elongated groan of the em-powered pump from the neighbour’s wall. That was our wall too. And so was the well with the algae on the inside walls. Half this side, half that side. And the mango tree which grew on that side, but dropped fruits on this side.

I remember the summers, so hot that the breaths would burn our nostrils, and the “cool” stories that never ended for days. Stories of devils, and daredevils, drowning men, and happy children. The dolls got married, human beings too. And left. What’s left? Nothing!… Only the rusty memories of a childhood long lost. A winding river. A convoluted past.