Realising my childhood dreams, I entered the park with Harper Lee on one hand and the diary in other, unburdening smiles and sorrows on the sharp spikes of wooden fences. I sometimes feel that I am running years ahead of my age, big numbers stir me more than the small ones. Though benches were empty, I chose to become the better half and kept the book in between, relaxing and letting the sun settle in me. My city felt warm and kept me engaged more than Harper Lee could. After flipping a few pages, I tried to initiate conversation with the man, in his late seventies, all white and grey, quiet and calm like how the ocean rests after tides recede. “Hello”, I said to which he replied the same, once again silence filled the air. Suddenly he stood up and started walking, burdening the wooden stick with all his desires. He was stooping, struggling to lift his foot, apologizing to the aftermaths of his romantic years. I felt life through him. He left and all I had was the park to graze over. I saw reflections; I saw myself crawling on soft grass, playing blind man’s buff, holding hands of my husband and surrendering for a wooden stick. The inevitable truth hit me hard. I am growing; loosing and gaining. One day everything would fade away, the beauty and scars, the faults and stars, ambition and passion, regret and relations; little by little I slipped on
the ephemeral beauty of life
and permanence of death.