Friday, February 28, 2014

The rain

The tears refused to come. My cheeks were rough and moist. The tears that I did not wipe away had streamed down to my neck and my blouse was wet. I was hunched over in the corner fo the room. The bare floor was cold and the cold walls had condensed in my outline. The tears refused to come.
I slowly got up. Food deprivation had caused my legs to weak. I stumbled and almost crashed into the dressing table. I caught myself. And looked into the mirror. My red tinged eyes were puffed and swollen, like I'd got up from a deep sleep. A good sleep does that too, you know. I really looked. My scars were still healing. And the wounds were definitely deep, in my body too. The pitiful creature in the mirror can not be me. I am a modern woman, am I not? Doesn't the world preach equality and feminism? Do I not have a backbone?
I wipe my tears with the back of my hand. The tears make the scrapes on my knuckles sting. That jolts me. I push the curtains for some light. It has rained. Fresh, cleansing rain. The ground is wet and shiny. The fallen raindrops cling to the window and drip down, reluctantly. The leaves are green. The griminess and stench has been washed away. The earth is new. That beautiful scent now pervades the air.
My rain has come and gone. I have no more to pour. Within the depths of my heart, a small green leaf lifts up its tender head, the griminess washed away. The sorrows and hurt of yesterday will stay just there, yesterday. A tree starts with a seed. I will grow, stronger,my branches will spread.
A rain signifies a new life. And I think I am ready to start mine.