Twilight
Fairy tale of bangles……
She gazed outside the patio door with burning blurry eyes. She was determined not to let the tears spill out of her misty eyes. He had told her once while playing with her coloured glass bangles that he loved the tinkling music of the jingle that they make when they touch each other. In the last three months that they had met and fallen head over heels in love with each other she had added a new bangle after each memorable incident. She had caressed them lingeringly with infinite love and tenderness every night in the enveloping ebony darkness before dozing off into her enlightened land of dreams.
She had put on the red bangle with gold polka dots when he had used his first ever endearment for her.
The coffee and chocolate swirled bangle was for the first time he had taken her to his favourite Italian restaurant. The pink with purple flowers was for the first time that he had kissed her. The white one with silver butterflies was in remembrance of their first dance together. The autumn sky blue coloured one with crimson roses was for the first poem that he had written for her. The midnight blue with sparkling stars was for the first time he had taken her to an ancient English churchyard and showed her his favourite old tombstones with heart rendering epitaphs. The gold bangle with copper pansies was for the exclusive moment when he had proposed to her. And the mauve one with corals and fishes was for the first time he had swam into her and she had completely given herself to him.
The tears eventually spilled out as she painstakingly took out one bangle after another from her bruised hand and slowly threw them out. It had become such an exhilarating, intensive habit for her to have them on her hand and listen to their mysterious melodies through every waking minute of every passing day. As the silver moonlight reflected on her glistening tears, she went back to her beloved childhood amongst the rice fields in Bangladesh. She could almost smell the savoury pithas and payesh that her mother used to make at harvest time. Even as a very young girl she had loved the kerosene lamps with their flickering lights unexpectedly dying out.
Rummana Chowdhury --- poet and writer --- is based in from Toronto, Canada
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