The time was eight o’clock in the evening. I took a break from work, left the operations area, and headed to the office lounge where I rested my body on a couch positioned in front of a large window painting before me the city lights 12 floors down below. When I was working the first time here, that seemingly subtle but loud illuminance gave me joy. Hope, even. “Candles lighting my far-reaching vision”, I told myself.
How times have changed four years later. Now, the lights left me tearing up a bit. Not out of delight, unfortunately.
I found myself looking back at the days when I was six years old in the province. The soil where our military duplex house stood was dark and fertile, the mothers in the neighborhood including my Mama did their routinely sweeping of the fallen leaves from huge trees spread across the village in the afternoon, and my first-grade self watched his favorite cartoon with friends while my brother cooked rice that will be served for dinner.
Funny how things change.
Places obscure rise from the dead, living places run out of breath.