Father's daughter

I saw her sitting there in the soft armchair, with her shoulders squinted. The setting sun was playing with her blond hair making it look golden.

When we were small we played with dolls together and ran on the streets, telling people that we were sisters. I felt very protective of her because she was younger to me. She was her father's baby girl when she was born but later as the years passed he was very possessive of her that he would not let her play with others.

Now its been over five years that she left her parents house and worked in a foreign country. She could earn the money and provide a decent life, she decided which man will stay in her life.

And today she sat and told me the story of her grown up adventures, her demanding job responsibilities and broken marriage.

With all the success and failure she had, I noticed her voice shake when she told me about her father, whose words still ring in my mind. He told her that she was his disappointment and that she never fulfilled his desires for her. He had his dream but he never shared them with his only daughter.

My heart ached for her because the Father's words cut the heart deep.

Social Vaccuum

There is no one to blame for the social vacuum one finds herself in upon the return to her home country after 4 years; after all, relationships are maintained better when face to face, over a cup of tea, through the long phone conversations, weddings, evening walks, birthday parties and many other tangible ways. For the last five years I was not able to be a part of it because of the distance, except letters exchange with just few that are still interested.

This time when I went home I discovered that it is not as cozy as it used to be. It is true that the central square looked beautiful with the petunias blooming, but something was missing behind all the expensive Mercedes and Land Cruisers, inside the glittery and full of sham supermarkets and malls, and in city's marshrutkas with glassy looks.

Imprisoned

In anger we slam the doors so loud that it echoes many years down the road;
we put a lock that no one can find a key to it, we remain the captives of our own offense and hurt.