As I slide open my window today,
I see threads of raindrops,
fleeing the pitchy mechanical clouds,
pouring down, stitching the bruised
muddy ground. Healing it.
I see in it my fourteen
year-old self slumped in
the public bus seat, medical report
lay lifelessly on my lap, eyes lost
on the raining sky, fingers digging in
the bouncy foam seat. Shredding it.
Suddenly, a soft sniffing sound invades
my ears, I turn to the woman sitting
beside me, her moist eyes leaking precious
tears unabated, lips cursing and pleading the divine
to let the tragedy befall her, instead of me.
Curing it.
"Relax, mom," I said with a lump in my throat. "It just means I have to wear specs from now on for poor vision. It's no big deal."
