The Woman In Red

Velvet she wore. The woman in red, conventions she tore. Her eyes meeting the world map as they wander from one animal to another and her lips spoke the finest truth, no one asked for. The way she sits on the park bench, looking at the birds, the squirrels, the cats, and at every glance, comparing them to her own house pets. The woman in red, having her entire life in front of her, saving all that she has got and making the life of others better. 55, she stood, unmarried, not a mother. Alone in this world, not alone at all. I've seen her sing, her heart is full of melody. She sings to the world, her friends, and her patients. She has loved no man, no woman too, for all she has ever loved is herself and her freedom. The freedom that lets her be there for those who were left alone, those who were shunned by the society; were called deranged, mad, psychotic. The woman in red loves them all. The ashes in her eyes, dust on her hands, the forever solitude that she held in her heart, never have I ever witnessed it. The stern yet so smooth, her smile, speaks a thousand sentences of love and acceptance yet her worn-out hair color has many other secrets to tell. “Life is not that hard, try mixing colors for once,” she says, her eyes lighting up and muscles relaxing. The women in red velvet, standing with grace, at 55, unmarried, not a mother but has nothing to fear. She stands tall, vivaciously, not caring about the world for a second and imparting all the worldly knowledge she has. She has no regrets and I hope to have none too.