As I step outside the car, a vibrant green tumult of
cool wind welcomes me to the meadow. Everything remains the same as before.
Yesterday’s gale hasn’t altered a thing. Disheveled boughs neatly straightened,
thickets naturally clipped into shape.
I notice the candy still
tucked in the palm of my hand. While storming out of the house, my 6-year-old
daughter gave it to me.
“Lemme know whom you wish to
erase.” She said, securely holding an eraser in her left hand and pointing to
her pencil sketch on her scrapbook page—papa, mama, herself and her grandparents. A smile bloomed
on my lips. God knows what she made of the reddened eyes, heated discussions,
sobs and noisy tears that happened from lack of appreciation, unmanageable work
deadlines, relentless stress of family expectations.
Alone, miles away from my
daughter, I hold the candy in my hand, feeling her soft touch as if I am
holding her hand or rather she is holding mine, her miniature fingers integrating
in the palm of my hand like the jigsaw puzzle joined together. I pop the candy
in my mouth—zingy and tangy senses burst out like a childhood memory.
I adjust my hand, my index
finger now in action. The setting sun folds in the palm of my hand and so does
the distant landscape. The camera fits exactly in my palm like my world. My
mere palmful—aching, borne down beneath the visceral burden, while the mind feels
feathery, shrinking spirit exorcised. It’s time to move homewards.
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