Gray skies in the morning are a common scene in the last few days. They make me think of JK Rowling’s Dementors floating around this dead city, spreading more misery and despair among the already tormented populace.
I have coffee, still the instant variety, and I hold the mug close to me as I tread to the dining table. It looks like it’s going to be an overcast day but I have a hunch that the Sun would break free of the iron colored skies around breakfast time.
Upstairs, I hear a chair scrape on the floorboards. My mother – up before the morning’s first light – would already be over by desk, writing. It runs in the family, I guess… that impulse to glide ink on paper even before Sleep had completely left our dream-infested consciousness.
It’s been almost a year now since I’ve moved in this city choked by fumes. But even now I am preparing to move. This is another thing that runs in the family. Even if we stake our claim to a piece of land and even if we work hard to grow roots in one place, the winds call us to other destinations. They beckon like old friends wanting us to have a look at some exquisite treasure unearthed from yonder. And we could not resist.
Nomads shall roam. Boxes have to be packed again. Decisions have to be made as to what items to leave behind… things that will be too heavy to take as baggage. Good byes will be said again. And hellos will follow by and by.
The idea of a journey embeds itself in my head, making me smile.
Two more months.
Two more months.
I pad outdoors. The cats meowled their morning greetings when they saw me. The patch of sky that I can see from the towering fences above my head now blazed azure.
It is a sunny summer’s day after all.