Here…

But the house looks real pretty, I must say. It is mid-April, but the decorations from Christmas are still hanging. They are gold and purple and red and blue and silver, and they add a nice charm to the place. Being here is all that matters when you’re here, barely in contact with the outside world. There’s no electricity, so the phones and laptop are dead… But I couldn’t care less. Nothing is urgent here, nothing is compulsory. I am free.
The old slanted tree we used to sit on gave in to its weight, but its fall left us the bench, that part of its trunk that ran along the ground for a metre or two. And at the very edge, new shoots are already sprouting. The old kitchen, bathroom and outhouse were brought down, and grass is all that is left, nothing to bear witness that they once stood there. I am reminded of a poem we studied in high school… ‘Grass Will Grow’.
And truly, nothing is permanent. Just like the tree, hurts get mended. Barrenness and hopelessness eventually give way to fruitfulness, given a little rain and sunshine. Here, I can heal. Here, I can be… Here, I can rediscover.

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