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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required At 3 a.m., before the birds have begun singing, before a single wing crosses the sky, I wake. Not from sleep, but from another dream that leaves my heart racing and my thoughts scattered like fallen leaves after a storm. Around me, life moves forward as it should. Children grow into lives of their own. Loved ones find new roads to walk. The world keeps asking for change, while some part of me still reaches for what was. Perhaps that is why so many women lie awake at this hour, struggling to find the words, struggling to quiet the demons within, wondering when exactly they began grieving for a version of themselves that is still here, yet no longer the same. The body burns, then shivers. One moment I am throwing off the blanket, the next I am pulling it back around me. Sleep becoming a stranger. The mirror tells quiet truths. And every season seems determined to teach the same lesson. Nothing stays. It feels like the withering of a fruit-bearing tree. A tree that may never bear fruit again, yet still tries to give shade to many. For years, its branches bent under the weight of all it gave away, love, care, comfort, strength, life itself. Then one day, almost without warning, the harvest grows lighter. The blossoms arrive less often. And the tree stands there, wondering if its purpose has quietly left with the seasons. But perhaps the tree was never becoming less. Perhaps it was becoming something else. For even when it bears no fruit, it still offers shade. Birds still rest on its branches. The weary still gather beneath it. The lost still find shelter there. Maybe that is the hardest and most beautiful truth of a woman’s becoming. To continue loving, even when the world has stopped asking for what she once gave so freely. To continue giving when no one notices. To continue standing through the long dark before dawn. And so at five a.m., while the sky is still undecided somewhere between dawn and dusk I place my hand upon my restless heart and wonder, whether this ache is not the end of flowering, but the slow, quiet transformation of fruit into shade. ©Chitra Arun
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