She cultivates solitude on Sundays.
With the lone candle illumnating her room in the darkest of nights, she licks her wounds like a pagan of the distant past. She sits silently with eyes shut, an immobile tableau, and undresses her spirit; her thoughts escape her mind like pearls slipping off a string.
Loss and grief slowly creep in like the ghosts that made her bawl in her younger years. She does not stop, however. The night air cools her flushed face and she is convinced her god plunges into her emotional reservoir as she chants her prayer.
She opens her eyes, a few hours later, and hears the stubborn orchestra of crickets.
She gives thanks for that gift.
________________________________________
Cleansing by KASH
No comments:
Post a Comment