Saturday, December 26, 2009


she sits in a corner, and folds clothes all day long. mechanically, her hands move, flip over, flatten, fold in, fold in, flatten, fold up, stack into a pile. all day she sits, and folds.
he squats on his haunches and stirs. all day long, he moves the ladle in a circle, stopping occasionally, to taste, and then empty the big vat into smaller containers, fill it up again, and stir and stir. all day long he sits and stirs, until his three vats are emptied and sold, and the sun has set, and he has pocketed his handful of grubby notes, and starts to pack up and head home.
they sit. and stare into the gloom. they sip the tea he has brought home in a steel urn, slightly stale, from the worst batch of the day. she stretches her arms, stiff from repeating the same motion over and over, and then washes the dishes. she squats and washes, rinses, turns the tap off, wipes, and then gets up and stretches. He gets up, and sits on the charpoy, and she squats beside him and presses his feet. they sit and wait. wait for the stars to flash a miracle into the sky. wait for the moon to open up, and reveal the glowing gleaming heaven that she has hidden under her dome for so long. they wait. and then they lie down, turn over, and go to sleep. they breathe, in and then out, all night long. and heaven syncs herself to their breathing, pulses rhythmically and mournfully, and resigns herself to the fact that humans will spend their time waiting and wishing and folding and stirring, and miracles one day, will become ordinary too.

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