SHALLY A.

[ Sigh ]. I bend to pack my bags, three big boxes filled with clothes, bags, shoes and underwear stare at me. I stand to straighten my back, my life does feel a little bent and I ache all over. I rest on the wall as my mind drifts as fast as the wind, bringing a breeze of thoughts and pictures to my mind. I’m packed, ready to leave you, yet the sting of fear bids me to cajole you till your faith beams and overshadows your fears. We could work this out, we can overcome. A tear drops, I dust it off. Courage, my dear friend, be brave. I honestly wonder, why do things change? Why can’t we have all the summers we long so deeply for? Be baked in the sun and dance in the pool of warmth? Why can’t I always have you? Yes, I dread change. I hate it. I hate change because it requires you to be strong; it forces you to take a leap in faith. Sometimes, it challenges you to wash and re-wash your memories till they fade. Just like memories of you and me, with so much of our lives plan

Waiting for the rickety bus to deliver me to my destination, my delivery time was fast approaching. The walking dead bus forcefully stops; I climb in, walk close to the window and sit down. I stick my head out – I’m dreaming of a better life – a life flowing with the swiftness of dancing, the steadiness of peace, and simplicity of hope. I dream on. Absently, I turn my hilariously hanging head with hope, when she jumps in. She slowly slides and stiffens beside me, holding her son firmly on one leg and her gigantic bag on the other. I notice her hands.  These big hands are sorely black, lined with use, squeezed from the wear and tear of hours and hours of work; strengthened by the weight of carriage, paled from the life of wash and ware. I wonder, what’s her story? Did her husband treat her hands with care? They desperately needed his support. Her palms told me they had carried sons, daughters, chores and life itself. Her face, strangely, bore little evidence of