Nisha stood watching the evening sky from her balcony. It was blue from the day, orange from the sunset in the distance, and purplish black as twilight slowly turned to night. It was a canvas she loved.
“Isn’t the sky beautiful today, ajja?” she asked, turning toward him.
“Sky…” said the old man, struggling with Alzheimer’s, almost hidden away in his blanket.
A tear fell from Nisha’s eyes. The dusk outside was beautiful. His dusk was not.
(© Vinay Leo R. @ I Rhyme Without Reason,
5th April, 2017)