Not ready

The flowers on the patch rose, shone, bloomed as the neighbours learned in whispers. About how the eldest Aunt overjoyed when I was born. She looks just like her father, everyone said. At his dining table with an uneven garden outside, without a vague idea of the birth of his first child. My mother thought of him. There was no telephone my uncle told him the next day on a bus. It seems the smile on his face lasted forever.
The rain didn’t want to stop. It was June. Past twelve am. Through the hospital window, through its gauze grids my mother could see. Men hasten in their raincoats. Trenched. Those plain black umbrellas above their heads she heard the clouds burst. Just as the soft lamp lit, somewhere. She saw the old ambassador cars of her city in the hours that passed after the lightening ceased.
The rain was faintly pouring now, drenching all the old buildings of the crossroads.

And she looked at her newborn one more time. Whom she just gave birth to, that looked just like the father everyone said. Those eyes, face, two big cheeks. I was all of him.


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