I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it was when the sun shined, its gaze falling on me, curious as a cat in the night as I quickly re-wrapped my headscarf after the wind had whipped it around my head. My mother had warned me about those flimsy pins. Nothing ever seemed to hold my veil down. The air deliciously enveloped me, caressing quieted speech to make way for more elegant words. It was for the rush of running down the street to catch the bus, for the will to catch light in between flowers in a photograph. It was the flimsy nature of every moment, how it seemed to slip like children’s slime through my feeble fingers before I could capture how it felt in my heart. And how the rain washed everything away like it never happened.

Yet when the puddles were jumped in and soon dried up to stop glimmering in intermittent sunlight, and the wet grass became lush fields abloom for farther than you could stretch your sight, it was hard to believe anything about reality except that it was by then, for the best.

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