Every night, the old woman sits on the dark porch.
On cold nights and warm ones, it doesn't matter. She sits there religiously, staring into the darkness.
She's cold but not a bodily cold.
She knows the feeling all too well;
the feeling of being alone,
the truth of a life taken.
It's about 11:30 now.
Almost time to blow out the candle but not before she grabs the last cigarette of the night from the pocket of her robe.
'One more cigarette' - she says to no one.
The smoke swirls thickly above her head.
The light from the candle seems stuck in the dense smoke until a light breeze disperses it.
The breeze, similar to the breeze of that night, so long ago.
Long ago when rights, human rights were for the powerful.
Long ago when her husband thought he could change the world.
Long ago when they sat around drinking, smoking, singing, and dreaming of freedom as twenty somethings always do.
Long ago, but not so long ago.
Memories have no time and neither does love.
Long ago, when, while sleeping they came.
Men, known and unknown took him away.
She sat on the porch that night,
with a candle and a smoke
waiting, waiting for him to come home.
Every-night the ritual remains as it has for 50 years.
Some believe she is crazy.
Some believe her a fool.
She knows - you know - she knows.
She continues to wait.
Giving up would be easy.
Love is hard,
and the courage to love even harder.
++++++
So many families have been torn apart around the world because they demanded freedom or has a different political ideology than the ruling party. Men, women, and children still disappear, never to be heard from again simply for wanting the freedom to vote, the freedom of press, and the freedom to express their personal opinion.
About the Creator
G. A. Botero
I have a million bad ideas, until a good one surfaces. Poetry, short stories, essays.
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Eye opening
Niche topic & fresh perspectives
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
On-point and relevant
Writing reflected the title & theme
Keep reading
More stories from G. A. Botero and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Just Breath
Tick tock, tock, toc. Tightness. feel; see. Nerves twitch Eye open. Her eyes opened. It wasn’t dark anymore. 'How long have I been laying here she thought.' She put her hands to her face and with her fingertips examined her skin. Her skin felt dry but relatively the same as she remembered it. I can’t image I’ve aged much -she murmured. She looked down. A gown. 'How strange.'
By G. A. Botero21 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
This is so sad, but also, angry making. Can't find a word for this thismorning.
Arggggh. This is so painful to read. Great job because I am cringing.