On a moonless night, filled with thunderclaps I find myself sitting with my dog and watching the houses outside our windows be lit by threads of lightning. It was oddly comforting to sit still a midst the play of shadows as the heavens rumble. My mind is quiet for once and my thoughts become like white blank squares, ready to be smeared with any color of my own choosing
And so I think about my father with his sanguine eyes, his roughened hands and his patient heart. I think about how his strength fades by the day as grey hair covers his head in its entirety. He gave me the happiest of childhood. He will give me the saddest days of my womanhood.
I think about my mother with her acid tongue that burns me every now and then and her brow high enough to build a wall between us. Thinking about my mother is not always pleasant but truthfully quite easy to put into words,perhaps because she is a constant presence much like her care. Some days, it is almost a balm to my scars. Almost.
I think about myself as selfishly for as long as the tempest outside would let me. I think of how I find beauty in my thoughts at each second my fingers connect with the keyboard, how I believe otherwise the moment my head hits the pillow. I think about how I am a bedrock for no one except maybe for this four-legged creature who faithfully watches the lightning with me. I think about my sewed-in mouth and my sometimes eloquent hands. I think about my labyrinth of a mind, how I get lost so easily. I think about loneliness too. It is inevitable when it is not others' understanding that is out of reach but your own.
But as the tempest tames, at each tick and tock, I wonder what will it take to enclose into my palms whatever finite that I seek
