And in her diurnal musings, she'd find what was to be found, events materializing before her as they would, not that frequently now, not merely for an age too old for it to be possible, but also for a loss of heart, in their customary patterns, one after the other after the other, fallen wings of birds in her porch.
Flies would buzz as she'd lay resting on the window and embers would peek through her hair like a hole in the fire. "I'm not looking for answers, I'm not looking for gold." But oh, she was. She was, and restlessly so, looking for answers that'd get her gold or golden answers or gold and answers, she wasn't quite sure, but aye, looking, she was.
Irregular mango slices and empty teacups would be found and she'd hide her face, a culprit, for she was one, giggling through sad eyes. Her answers would not come to her. She'd uphold her questions with the ever-faltering pride she had, the doubt, the feeling of fleeting hope, of lost love that, she believed, was found only under mistletoes or sunset on bridges or inside pages forgotten.
Her musings had told her who she was meant to be, who she'd be with, who she'd be without, but they hadn't told her who she'd be. And just as they'd told her everything, in an instant, they vanished. She'd knocked on the doors of her mind and heart, asked favours from eyes unseen, seeked knowledge from lips that were bruised and split, all in vain.
On a night like this, she'd be happy in her bed, in the comfort of her sheets and having just finished her coffee, she'd be ready to sleep, a child wrapped in her mother's arms. But now, she lays resting on the window, not looking and looking for answers amongst alien faces, finding but not quite, what her heart desires.
