A Journey with No Destination

I quickly shut my eyes and took a deep breath. The open door of the bus allowed for two minutes of real fresh air as a woman slowly descended the fraying steps, her purple sari rising just enough to display her edemic ankles and puffy little feet. The conductor tugged on the rope and drew the door shut. I couldn’t help but lean forward and watch the woman waddle back into the darkness between the dusty-white buildings.

My sweaty hands were a constant irritation. One tightly clutched the iron bar above my head while the other was bound to a plastic shopping bag. I alternated hands, carefully wiping the sweat off onto my cream-colored churidar top. There were three layers of people squished behind me. I could smell the coconut oil from the hair of the lady closest to me. I shut my eyes and composed myself. I’ll make it through.

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In Response to Why She Can’t

This is a continuation of sorts. A quick, fragmented thought (reaction?).

Bright, white wings. The little girl’s biggest dream was to fly. She pinned a new white feather each day.

Bright, white wings. She was ready to grow up.

.

Then one day, she dyed them bright pink. It was surely just a fad. She wanted them to stand out. After all, they were still wings, just full of color to boot.

Bright, pink wings. Outstretched to cover her double.