She sat in the waiting room in silence. Perhaps, her God would her her prayer. The earthquake was cruel. Though she sat still, her hands shook in anguish begging for hope. Perhaps death won't visit her beloved this time.
Disposable kids as they were called. The dusty roads of Mumbai left their footprints only for a moment. Then a fly would land on their faces leaving their foot prints. Either way, the two creatures are unwanted and are left to beg for food and money only to be shooed away.
At any moment the feather will take flight. A soft breath, a strong desire will carry it to its destiny. Much like life. So delicate and fragile. We mustn't crush the feather. Like a person loved with hands around their neck, they will suffocate and die.
She told me she lived in the mountains. the night before she fought Lucifer with the help of St. Michael, the archangel. She's and indigenous mestiza she said. Her ancestors fought the colonizers and lost but she gained the power of insight. Her birthday is no longer celebrated. Not because of lack of interest, she forgot the date. But in those eyes, there were no hundred years of solitude. There were lovers, and children, and great-grandchildren who would dance around her skirt and at times wipe their runny nose from or use it to wipe the juice from their empanadas. Dimentia forgot her. Her fierceness scared them off.