The place had no soul or spirit left, and it was evident in the colourless walls, the unclean glasses, the empty eyes of the server who left me a menu card.
I’d never felt sadder at the prospect of not being a part of someone else’s story.
The infallible whiteness of the walls, the omnipresent smell of disinfectants, and the fields of artificial grass come back to me. Swimming before me are visions of smiling children and the legions of overworked childcare professionals constantly at their service. Every blink threatens to permanently relocate me to their world of ceaseless laughter.
It’s God’s funny way of reminding me that all that is received is a gift that is broken.
With nothing left to give, She withered away. From black, then to white And she faded to gray.
As I write to you, I pray and hope that this letter reaches you in safe hands. Sadly, your Amma can only do that now. I’m sorry
Last spring, I came across a guy who was sculpted out of the same marble stones that were used to sculpt the Greek gods back in the 5th century.
“Your Amma called,” whimpered Abba, “She’s not… well. She wants to see you.”
Drenched in sweet moonlight yet hidden in part, She sat on an oak tree that lived in the dark.
There was a letter from Yana’s grandmother on her nightstand. Which was weird, because just ten minutes ago, she and her parents stood on their porch as her grandmother drove away. Why would she leave a letter? Picking it up, Yana turned it over to see her name scribbled on top. Inside, with neat handwriting:
