Flashback

As I look out the window, I see the rain begin to fall. The rain, it brings back memories. They say when a soul above is happy, they cry, and rain is their tears of happiness. I believe so too. Thirty years it has been, since that fateful day. Yet when I close my eyes, I can still recollect with ease, what had transpired that day.

It was my thirteenth birthday. My dad wanted to throw a party and invite all my friends, and I had said yes. The rain was falling outside, but it did not bother me that day. I was very cheerful, as I took phone call after phone call, friends and relatives calling to wish me. A stack of cards and gifts lay in the hall, waiting for me to open. My dad was busy with preparations for the big party, so he asked my nanny to take me shopping. Nanny had taken care of me after my mom died, and she meant a lot to me. I saw a beautiful dress at the boutique, and immediately claimed it as mine. I was holding onto the packet soon after.

We were running late, and the rain didn’t help matters much either. In the rush on the streets, somehow, my hand slipped out of Nanny’s but before I could say a word, I found a hand on my mouth, and I was carried into that dark alley. I was scared and he gagged me. He let me down, but I only saw the wall in front of me. When I turned, I saw him coming for me. I closed my eyes.

I remember his hands touching me, under my dress. I remember his blood on my face, and Nanny standing with a knife in her hand. I remember sitting on my knees next to her and crying. After that day, I shunned the rain for a long time. I never cried again after that. I fought hard to make my dreams come true, to forget that day. Maybe my mom and Nanny are happy seeing me today.

As I look out the window today, I still see the rain. But I see me too. Joan Alexander, rich, successful and one of the most brilliant businesswomen New York has ever seen. I am whoever I wanted to be.

Poetry & writing to me are to me, a breath of fresh air in a life that is sometimes covered by the smoke of sorrow or self doubt. They also become the sweets I share to celebrate when life offers me a reason to. But most of all, they are to me, my life. For each word I write is a piece of my heart, a thought that just had to find its way into the world.

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