As the numbness of winter slowly disappears ceding its place to a readily perceptible warmth in the air, her heart fills with hope for a change with a change of seasons.
The woolen clothes and soft comforters are packed off neatly in bags and stacked away in that corner of the wardrobe farthest from one's reach, waiting to be brought out again next year. Lush green leaflets sprout from branches that previously appeared dead, heralding the advent of another spring.
But to her dismay, the yellowish food stains keep making appearances on her little girl's uniform on alternate school days. The neighbor utters almost the same string of profanities every time his dog relieves itself on one of his favorite potted plants. The same old faces in her neighborhood are seen walking across the street from her balcony, going back and forth from work.
In the end everything remains the same under the guise of a change, she muses. Or perhaps everything changes while giving off an illusion of permanence. She does not feel sure about either theory.
But then why does she still feel as nauseous as she had felt the first time she caught a whiff of the unfamiliar scent of shampoo emanating from her husband's scalp? The sweet, flowery fragrance still makes her stomach churn violently.
The way he offers half-baked and vague responses to her queries, does not change either.
Weary of waiting for changes that never materialize she has sought solace in something else.
On those sombre nights he does not return home on the pretext of work and her chest feels all constricted, she lets her pen move freely on the pages of a diary she keeps skillfully hidden from everyone else.
Under the dim light of the lampshade in the living room, she writes away all that she can never say out aloud or let show. She writes all that she longs for but cannot have. She writes about all the tears she refuses to cry in fear of never being able to stop.
And somewhere deep down she wills herself to believe that she, too, has the right to break away, to change, to dream, to forsake that which has already withered away like dry leaves in autumn. And to begin anew.
But she knows she can't. At least not tonight, when her little girl is sleeping with such a peaceful expression on her face, perhaps lost blissfully in the land of beautiful princesses and giant chocolate ice-cream cones.
For now, she is more than willing to give up her own dreams in exchange for hers to come true.
And so she keeps on writing.
Image courtesy :oxfordmedic.blog.com
The woolen clothes and soft comforters are packed off neatly in bags and stacked away in that corner of the wardrobe farthest from one's reach, waiting to be brought out again next year. Lush green leaflets sprout from branches that previously appeared dead, heralding the advent of another spring.
But to her dismay, the yellowish food stains keep making appearances on her little girl's uniform on alternate school days. The neighbor utters almost the same string of profanities every time his dog relieves itself on one of his favorite potted plants. The same old faces in her neighborhood are seen walking across the street from her balcony, going back and forth from work.
But then why does she still feel as nauseous as she had felt the first time she caught a whiff of the unfamiliar scent of shampoo emanating from her husband's scalp? The sweet, flowery fragrance still makes her stomach churn violently.
The way he offers half-baked and vague responses to her queries, does not change either.
Weary of waiting for changes that never materialize she has sought solace in something else.
On those sombre nights he does not return home on the pretext of work and her chest feels all constricted, she lets her pen move freely on the pages of a diary she keeps skillfully hidden from everyone else.
Under the dim light of the lampshade in the living room, she writes away all that she can never say out aloud or let show. She writes all that she longs for but cannot have. She writes about all the tears she refuses to cry in fear of never being able to stop.
And somewhere deep down she wills herself to believe that she, too, has the right to break away, to change, to dream, to forsake that which has already withered away like dry leaves in autumn. And to begin anew.
But she knows she can't. At least not tonight, when her little girl is sleeping with such a peaceful expression on her face, perhaps lost blissfully in the land of beautiful princesses and giant chocolate ice-cream cones.
For now, she is more than willing to give up her own dreams in exchange for hers to come true.
And so she keeps on writing.
___
