Evening

There is no suitable word I know for

this feeling- not quite angst, or grief, or

mind-numbing purposelessness, nor anger, or

sorrow. I do not have a word for it, never found

one for this- this helplessness when

humor forsakes me, and sadness betrays, when

I can neither laugh, nor cry.

Mother called in the evening. I did

not pick up the phone; heard the conversation in

my head, as I let the ringtone play out- hearing her

tell me I am not eating enough, how I am not sleeping enough, how

long it has been since I was home, last. She, making

estimates of how thin I am, complaining about how

I am refusing to marry this year too. Missed calls are envelopes

full of reproach, and guilt stillborn. The phone stops blinking

and I wonder when I will call her

back, and what I will say.

This town is unbearably humid, and my

unknown feeling crawls down my spine, in wet droplets

crawling over my skin like the images in a particularly

repulsive memory, I will not sleep tonight, but maybe

I will have learnt something. Maybe I will

learn the sadness I know, is more pleasant

than the one I do not understand. Even though, they both

might be the same.