He walked through the garden, right into the house. Burt Bacharach singing raindrops falling in my head straight into his ears through the ipod dangling around his waist. He imagined birds chirping around in the greens as the sweet breeze travelled over the wild flower hedges, acquiring the characteristic lightly scented attribute from the woody stems and the delicate yet brightly coloured petals.
The kitchen door swung open and he found his uncles and father steadily engrossed in their respective newspapers. The dog frantically jumped around him as he noticed her sitting on the corner chair looking over her large glass of milk straight into his eyes. He knew she won't talk to him. What was the matter, he never knew. He never knew why she was in such a rotten mood, that too in the summer holidays. He was still in conversation with Burt Bacharach and they decided to carry on, but outside of the kitchen. He felt so triumphant about his great ability to remain untainted by a certain person's ill temper that he rejoiced within. However this triumphant feeling was shortly overtaken by its evil cousin guilt and he could not bear to get along with her.
He contemplated as he crushed the handful of lavender that he had grabbed from his grandma's kitchen garden, over his creme bed spread. "Will she come and tell me or not?"
He lay there silently for several passing moments and finally stormed out in a bout of rage.
With the evening sky and the soaring moon he traced his steps back like the home bound birds. But what was all the hullabaloo about? He heard his grandma talking on the phone, "What does the doctor say? Breathing trouble due to severe allergy caused by......lavender?
No comments:
Post a Comment