Camille Gajria is a GP and educator in North West London. She is on Twitter: @returnofcam
I’ll never forget the walk home that bitter evening. Whereas even an ordinary dusk sky could be a canvas of vivid luminescence, that night it was more like a stout puce. Dirty water from cleaning brushes.
I always walk home from work. It gets me moving after 10 hours of mostly sitting in other people’s heads.
I always walk home from work. It gets me moving after 10 hours of mostly sitting in other people’s heads. My walk home is an oasis of no small talk, no confusion, no hidden agendas, no unsolvable dilemmas, and no responsibility except to grip my umbrella against the gusts that collect on the hill. The vast hilltop view reinflates the shrivelled balloon of my mind. When hailstones shard against my face, they awaken my cheeks exhausted from smiling, talking, and biting the insides to curb my reactions. By the time I reach home, work is a past that no longer exists.
But that evening celestial slaps were no use. Because of the woman with the gold hoop earrings. She had let me into her story, 66 years of the way in. No visitor had entered before. She opened the door and lava seeped out, soaking the 1930s carpet that she vacuumed daily.
Futility. He still called all the shots and drank them too, and smashed the glasses.
Igneous rock forms when lava solidifies and igneous rock is unmovable. The sky was now tar black. I walked home that evening but she never could; she will spend the sunset of her life stuck there.
Featured photo by Jason Blackeye on Unsplash
