STORYMIRROR

Shasha Gilbert

Abstract

3  

Shasha Gilbert

Abstract

Her Beige Handbag

Her Beige Handbag

4 mins
238


There is a story behind the way she pours my coffee at 7 in the morning. There is a story behind the way she smiles at me when I leave the house for work. There is a story behind the way she welcomes me, even when I am late, which is almost every day. There is a story behind those broken vases. There is a story behind her silence. There is a story behind our story.


Today, the gale is flowing in the direction of my transgressed home. Blowing away the photographs and reminiscent sentiments. I can feel my feet going numb just like my heart, so I choose to sit somewhere. On a bench, a few miles away. I can see the silhouette of a lady; reading something perhaps. So I sit beside her. I won't look at her, she seems to succumb to whatever she is doing. For some reason, she appears aloof. So I resume my thoughts. 


What went wrong? She chides me like she uses her soul as a canvas to fill the laundry basket up to the brim. She sacrificed a lot, she still does, I know. But, had I not? She is my other half, I am supposed to understand her, but what about me? My mind is reverberating with the same questions, so I sit straight and look around. I notice no one is sitting beside me anymore, well atleast a living being isn't. I pick up the beige handbag she probably left in haste. What should I do with it? Maybe there is an ID inside. So I reluctantly explore. It's a bland bag, nothing special or atypical. Except for this piece of paper. Why doesn't she carry an ID? I unfold the paper for hints. I read-


Dear John,


I dreamt of a happy life today, again. The city is littered with broken dreams and promises today, you asked what went wrong. Well, I will tell you what did, ransack my bag once more will you? I hope you are going with the flow. Now in that small handbag, you'd find- 


✓ A half-eaten chocolate, forthwith you must be wondering what significance does that hold, well the other half belongs to you.

I am supposed to share everything with you without whining, you see. 


✓ House keys, you know, to capture all the warmth from the imprints of your memories when you leave the house and when you return.


✓ Lipstick, I am supposed to please your eyes because you are a man and I am a porcelain doll and my lips shouldn't be chapped. 


✓ Tissue papers, your tears only matter. Mine? Well, mine are meant to be soaked into the sand of a broken hourglass.


Did you find any ID proof? Well, I suppose you didn't. Do you know why? Because I am a wife and you are my ID. I don't have an individual existence. I am leaving the world to cleanse the mark you gave me. 


Love,

Yours Anna.


Now, I am not John and I don't know who Anna is, maybe it's the name of the lady. But I do know something; I have to see my wife. Dropping the handbag on the bench. I start marching, but there is something inside my head that is telling me to look back. So I turn my head to look for the handbag. It is gone. Like it was never even there. Now that I strain my mind a bit, I don't remember the lady's face. Not even a glimpse of it. 'Who was she?' I sprint, as fast as I can. The buildings, the cars, and the stench of hopelessness fill my nostrils. 


'I see you every day how come I never noticed your pale skin, sunken eyeballs, and the dark bags under your eyes? I hug you tightly and enchanted "I love yous and I understand." I am afraid you'll vanish in thin air.'


There is a story behind her veined hands and the way she adds her name with my name. 


I can see the world in her beige handbag. 


©shashagilbert


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