Repeat

     

  Life seemed just a series of history repeating itself on a pre-destined book.

        Age was a number.

      Nursery life included a bully, a shah of blah who would talk incessant stories, a self-proclaimed husband who grew angry when I refused to accept a husabnd was more important than a tasty bite of chicken, boys in uniform who walked talked alike as if of a feather, tailed friends waited by the road side and the gate with loyal solidarity. A day then meant a hug followed by a kick or vice versa. And me aimless with a head filled with a dream of lights bells and horses. And yes someone who never had a name or face who I believed would walk down after a twinkle a tinkle and a trot.

        And across the years nothing had changed.

         The bully survived, shah of blah had just arrived full of stories, men in uniform walked and talked as if of one feather, lights bells and horses flashed across now and then, tailed friends waited, just that in place of a self proclaimed husband I had one who grew angry if I dared tried proclaiming anything beyond a polite gesture of chicken offered without asking.

   A day now still means a hug followed by a kick or the other way round.