As the blinding rays of the sun pierced my eyes, I caught sight of a half broken branch hanging from a lone leafless tree, a few last stubborn threads holding it as it swayed in the soft wintry breeze.
The branch, it seemed, had given up, had let go but the tree hadn’t; like a mother to a child it clung to the branch, defying the rules of nature, unable to accept the fate of her child, that it was destined for disgrace and not for the glory of the skies.
The broken branch, that little damaged child, felt encaged by life itself.
Stuck between life and death, between glory and disgrace, between a mother’s love and the brutal truth, the child wondered, was this the life he wanted? To be afraid every second, to live in fear, knowing any moment a sudden wind could end his short life? Death was inevitable; there was no escape from it. So what was this? Not freedom, certainly, to wait with bated breath for the claws of death to tear through the thread of life.
The branch looked towards the tree, into its soft pleading eyes and smiled, “No use, Mother.” And it thought of wrenching itself away.
Just then, the sky turned gray and a sudden strange wind knocked into it as if directed solely at it.
A thought whispered across its consciousness as it felt itself being pulled away…or perhaps, it was a voice.
You cannot stop death, the voice echoed, but you cannot hurry it either. Death comes by its own time, at its own place and by its own choosing. It is not your choice.
And then everything went dark.
The Authoress: Maryam Atta
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The Weaver - Writer (@theweavrs) January 19, 2016
Photo Credit: Broken by Nicola Riley
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.