In search indeed

Scarred
by years,
once shiny face
browning, peeling away
as charred pepper.

Awaiting
while winter dews
seeping through
sweeping hope
of restoration.

Solitude
the trusted advisor
a partner in part
on date nights 
out in the open.

Breathing
coldness piercing
ornament for the porch
a hollow cage
in search of bird.


Inspired by:

“I am a cage, in search of a bird.”

Franz Kafka
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The woman who knitted

woman knitting

“Oh, it’s just nice to get away from all the noise at home. You know?” Her eyebrows had curved up while her fingers paused in mid air. I’d nodded politely even though I couldn’t possibly fathom why someone would go to the library every day just so they can knit. 

I’d just started working in the library when I met her for the first time. The curious stares never perturbed her, and neither did the incessant shuffling of feet.

People came and went. Since only a handful of them regularly spent time reading, the knitting lady soon became an icon you couldn’t miss.

In the following years, I spent occasions wondering what drove her away from home and into the library. I mean, I’d go when I wanted a book. Or to work or to attend a meeting. Theories constantly whirled my head—perhaps her neighbours were loud and rowdy, I mused turning on my cassette player at home one night. Or maybe her husband was a messy gardener leaving dirt marks all around the house to annoy her. Or perhaps, I wondered remembering my own grandparents, her grandkids were a pain in the ass and a torment to the ears.

But I never asked her.

“I should’ve,” I wrote in my diary the night after her funeral.

It wasn’t people that’d driven her way from home. It was lack there of.


Photo credit: Imani on Unsplash.

Rooting

He branched desperate

as roots of a tree, reaching

clinging to someone