Warm Summer Night
Staring through the window on a warm summer
night, I watch the tired souls walking back home from work they loathe. A
gust of breeze drifts my eyes to a desolate garden abandoned by the ‘next gen’
kids. Lifeless swings, seesaws, and monkey bars singing a song of despair. Soon
my ears are greeted by the chitter-chatter of families and the
clitter-clatter from their kitchen. A regular summation of everyday city life.
Decision of living alone maybe was a
mistake, perhaps I should move in with my parents. But my constant bouts of
depression and anger could only dole out pain and worry for them. Suddenly, the
echo of my phone’s ringtone fills up the room. Startled, I retreat from the
colossal chaos of mind. Eyes lit up looking at the name flashing on the
screen and a smile crosses my face. There is a strange chord between a mother
and her child; she knows whenever you need her. As I answer the call cannons of
questions bombard me for which I heave a mirthful sigh, wait for her to resume firing
and answer all the questions eventually.
She then feeds me with all the necessary
details I miss staying apart from them. She tells me how papa spends whole day
reading newspaper, watching travel channels, or politics, and how some days the
creative restlessness takes over him culminating with plans to make something that
results into a messed house which she has to clean later. This closely is
followed by the life snippets of all my aunts, uncles and, cousins. After an
hour long conversation she decides to end the call with the usual enquiry about
my life, the miss yous and health advices. My mother seemed happy and at that
moment, I knew moving out was always the right decision.
I glance up at the sky searching for the
moon, disappointed of its absence and with the contentment in the convenience
of living alone, walk back to bed. Sinking into it, I let the soft fabric
titillate my skin and a blissful moan escapes my throat. Shutting my eyes
slowly I drift into sleep and retire from the day’s
labour of survival.
