In summers, she used to keep her window open and a bird or two, used to perch on it, but now, even their choir seemed to be ruined by the irregular notes of the cold. This thought made her look at the window and with its ritualistic punctuality, it reminded her of him.
She thought of excuses for not getting up; how brutal can he be, trying to woo her frozen joints to his natural rest. She lifted herself up after much consideration, opening her squeaky front door.
The bright light greeted the dimness that made a comfortable nest in her eyes. She squinted; readied her mind and made way to a small patch of wildflowers. No time; no effort; was needed to grow them.
She took a bow,sluggardly, her spine debarred sudden moments. She plucked a bunch and went with offbeat perambulation, to her husband. She offered soulfully bland flowers to his tree grave.
She wanted to scream, but her throat was dry; she wanted to throw a tantrum, but her limbs were tired. There was no use of anything, she sat there mum; silent. Even the tears, that fell from their cradle, were sickeningly quiet.
Such is the test of life, it didn't make her swim in hate but did something far worse; it made her empty. She wordlessly pleaded to, she knows not who for someone, but in her hearts of hearts, she knew,
No one will hear her in this emptiness, inside and out.