ephemeral

Loneliness has always been her only companion.
There was no one around, no one to eat with—
all she could do was clean her house occasionally,
eat, and wash the damn dishes.
Washing these dishes remind her of
how sensitively delicate her hands were.
She paused for a good while,
with her hands holding a plain, white plate
under the inexorable changes of temperature of
the running water—
from cold to lukewarm to unbearably hot
—or was it the other way around
as her hands couldn’t feel a thing?
Her hands, really, all numb.

Is numbness an actual feeling
or the lack thereof?

Though, she knew it was hot.
The water was hot;
the only hope of light was
the window in front of her kitchen sink,
which was weakened by the hot water steam.
The transparency of the window,
all steamed up,
reflected a blurred image of her body.
She tried to focalize from the blur
reflection of her melting body skin
onto the lively meadow
just outside her isolated house.

Then, she is standing in the meadow,
with the knee-high grass dancing around her—all worked up, the grass is sweating.
She is glad that, for once,
she is outside enjoying
the sunlight and the sweet smell of damp earth
due to the sweat of the dancing grass.
She runs hither and thither.
She blows each dandelion she sees, which, as soon as blown, races in the gust of wind.
She gathers daffodils,
making a crown that sits perfectly on her head.
She throws assortments of colorful flowers into the air as
her own confetti.
Then, she takes a moment to lay down,
looking at the clouds rushing through the endless blue tracks of the sky.
She closes her eyes to listen:
the bees courting their flowers,
the hops of grasshoppers making their way through the dancing grass,
the winged symphony of birdsongs.
She opens her eyes.

She realizes—

She couldn’t.
She was stuck with
the image of her appalling earthly-touched body,
harmonized by the slow ticking of the ceiling fan,
all rhythmically synchronized
with the tock of the clock hanged on her plain, white wall.
Apart from the ticks and the tocks of both her fan and her clock,
all she could hear were
the crickets chirping
and the water splashing on
her reddened, numb hands and her white plate.

©2016, Quiyet Brul

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