Yours, Mine and Theirs

It is 9:00pm on Thursday. The night before June 3. The sky itself seems not to want to forget how we got in its way and later blamed it for the disaster. So it rains, heavily. As if it were some sort of memorial service, all else observes silence, save the raindrops singing an eulogy for the dead of June 3. No thunder peals, and no lightening flashes, the sky does not mean to show off much. It just rains, the silent tears of those the city runners threw in the way of the rain.
Fate demands we wear mourning clothes, and so the power  gets cut, all over. Suddenly, someone’s security alarm goes off. It becomes the shrill wailing of a woman who just arrived at the funeral grounds, after receiving a down payment for the theatrics. It goes on for a while, tires out, then stops just as the rain thins to sprinkles. Then a couple of houses away, a generator coughs to life, and rumbles on like a preacher detached from his sermon at this memorial service. It becomes a din that marries the night, and being one, ceases to be noticed.
Now, against the humming of the gen, and the soft sobs of the rain, I hear the sand in the hourglass pour- some basin lay outside just beneath my window, and by the second, drops of water mark their arrival into it.  The paradox it turns to be – as something is being filled, something is being emptied, with and of the same content; life. Mine, yours and theirs.

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