conglomeratefrog
The train leaves the station like a shuttlecock flies from a racquet, picking up speed so rapidly that you would have thought it was glad to leave the glaring sunlight behind. A lady clutching on to the metal pole so tightly that her knuckles were white tripped, her clutch bag falling to the floor and expelling its contents. You would have shaken your head and muttered about clumsy people, but now you were scrambling to retrieve your belongings.
You never know when it is coming, so it is better to make preparations early, my mother used to say. But sometimes, despite months of warnings, weeks of mental preparations, days of running through every single memory, every single thing she wished for, every single regret you felt because you never did something, the blow can still strike you like a hammer can slam into your head.
Around me, people bustle around, combing my hair, arranging my clothes, making snide remarks of drying their tears, while I lie, unmoving, confused, in a shiny wooden box.