A Minute and A Million Things

It was 12 o’clock, midnight, when her eyes finally fluttered and the breath left her body in a whoosh. The pale body lying on the deathbed had almost an unearthly glow to it, the skin wrinkled and her body limp. Sitting beside, her daughter didn’t realize it at first. But leaning in, what seemed like a mere disturbance in the sleep was ascertained as death. The daughter let out a wail and resigned to her pain. Even the last two months of repeated visits to the hospital and seeing her mother’s body weaken hadn’t prepared herself to face this.

It was 12 o’clock, midnight, when she gave the final push and the doctor in front pulled up a tiny bundle of limbs and softness, covered in blood and wailing. Wrapping the tiny baby in clean rags, the newborn was passed on to his mother, still wailing but finding warmth in his mother’s embrace. The new mother knew no bounds to happiness, tears streaming down her face in helpless joy. She simply clutched her husband’s hand, and showered kisses on her new wonder.

It was 12 o’clock, midnight, when she let out the last yawn and resigned to deep, long-awaited sleep. The day had been long, and the hours tiring. No amount of dreaming about the bed had prepared her of the feeling of bliss when she finally sank down on the pillows, switching off the bedside lamp and tugging at the cover.

It was 12 o’clock, midnight, when he repressed another yawn, and tried widening his eyes to peer closely at the numbers flying off the page. The cost-benefit analysis was wearisome, but it was the depravity of sleep which caused him despair. He tried to think about the last break he had taken in the last 48 hours, but couldn’t focus enough.

It was 12 o’clock, midnight, when he let out an yelp of delight and jumped up, the popcorn inside the bowl on his lap flying all around. That goal had been fantastic, he thought, and the win long-awaited. He gave out another whoop and went to the telephone to ring up his friend, probably because a celebration was due.

It was 12 o’clock, midnight, when that final goal buy the opposite team ended all his hopes. He sank down on his sofa, clutching his hand and banging the television remote on the table. Dang it, he thought, wondering why his team had lost for the second time that week. Yawning, he switched off his television and went towards his bedroom, mood already irritated and irked.

It was 12 o’ clock, midnight, when she received that final text, ascertaining all the fears in her mind. So he was breaking up, she thought, suddenly aware of something beginning to fall apart within her. No amount of explaining, or reasoning, or pleading had been of avail, it was a lost cause from the very beginning. She let out a shudder and gave in to the impending grief.

It was 12 o’clock, midnight, when he finally took the turning to her house. She was nestled close against him, his arm around her shoulders. They came to a stop in front of her house, and the moment she turned to face him, he captured her lips. It was a soft kiss, leaving a trail of unspoken promises and undying hope. He dragged his fingers down her cheek, reveling in the glow, and saw her walk down the pathway to her front door. Seeing her safely inside, he turned on his heels, heart still fluttering with excitement.


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