“Providence”

“It’s just another dreary day,” she reminds herself, as she forces her body to get out of bed. “Nothing will happen today,” she whispers, dejectedly, willing herself not to cry.

She hastily fixes her bed and takes a deep breath, steadying her mind, if not her heart, as she goes downstairs to help make breakfast. “If there’s even some food left in the fridge,” she mumbles quietly.

These past months have been horrible. Her contract with her old company ended and there wasn’t any other job waiting for her. Being the breadwinner of the family was tough but it was even harder because she couldn’t find anything that could tide them over. What with all the bills to pay–the electric bill, the water bill, the rent–and the money to buy food, mainly.

She ambles over to the kitchen and finds her mom mixing something in a bowl. “Good morning, mama,” she whispers. She opens the fridge and finds several packets of food inside–a tray of eggs, a pack of biscuits, a carton of milk, some vegetables. That startles her. She looks questioningly at her mother. “Ma, why do we have food?”

Her mother smiles, gently. “Your brother sent a bit of cash to help,” she explains, “There’s some coffee and bread here. You need to eat. You’re getting a lot thinner, Trisha,” she adds as she hands Trisha a steaming mug of coffee.

She accepts the mug and starts eating some of the bread. She cannot hide the smile that slowly brightens up her face. “Thank you, God,” she silently prays.

“At least, we have some food,” her mom tells her. “Yes, thank God. We have food,” she seconds. The heavy feeling lifts up a bit and she feels lighter than she did earlier. Surely, this situation won’t be forever. She knows that God will soon provide her with a solution. She only needs to believe that. Because, He always does.

©Diwa

8+

“The Writer”


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i shall write about your pain and mine;
our love and hate poured now in rhyme.
we come alive in the hearts and minds,
of men and women, who read my lines.

the stark reality of a love that can never be,
may now only be a reason and a source for me.
when random thoughts enter the dance
that my hands commence by chance.

the graces that a love–once pure–can now bestow,
are these emotive utterings that grow;
as i painfully write in poetry and prose.
a love forgotten comes alive–magnifies the loss.

–Diwa

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