“Life is like a flower. If we don’t take care of it....
it can wither and die”.
- Davene Taylor

Time, it is the only weapon which has been able to defeat the mortal man and his pride. It is colourful spring that a tiny blossoms into a beautiful flower spreading sweet fragrance all around. They fragile peacefully by the mossy stone or under the shadow of the mighty and hasty leaves. These flowers that spread happiness, brightness and hope into the lives of all, seems wrinkle. The aroma is drained, the feels and a withered flower awaits to be swept away by a splash of rain. A life blooms in the spring, lives through the tailing summer flights back the ruthless autumn, fades in the mourning winter and gets erased in the torrential monsoon. All these, only to make way to a new beginning.

Life is not stationary and human relationships upon which we thrives, drives us into a labyrinth of desires, the need to win every race; to covet and to possess every laurel. Success many a time makes us an addict. An Addict who breaks all emotional bonds, kills the soul in him, forgets to love and to be a humane. The mother who fed us in her womb for nine months soon becomes a burden we wish to get rid of. Isn’t it strange?

Isn’t it strange a baby after its birth recognize its mother. It is still strange to accept the truth that every tiny toddler who took his first footsteps with wobbly knees in the protections of his parents gets indifferent towards the dying soul. These hands that rocked our cradle; upon whom we suckled milk, who spent a numerous sleepless nights just because we sneezed once ,is forgotten by us. Upon whose back we climbed becomes an annoyance for us. They gave us life, our identity but all we return back is cold indifference. Our tear drops ached them the most but we, engrossed to win the trophy of life do not even stretch out our hands to wipe away the incessant stream of silent tears flowing down the wrinkled cheeks. All we do is get bitter at them for their slightest mistakes inheritable to a lot age. How do we forget that they are the same persons who forgave us for the silliest mistakes we committed. We kill our conscience; the innocent child in us dies.

Those fading breaths, trembling footsteps, grey stands of hair, wrinkled skin portray how the toil of two lives are behind our present day smiles. The flowers wither, the flowers die but the sweet aroma fingers behind reminding us of our misdeeds, a crime we hush......

About the author: Ms. Rezina Hassen of Tezpur, Assam is a English Teacher working at Army Public School, Narangi, Guwahati. Her hobbies are reading fictions, poetry, writing articles, etc...[Read more]

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