mute

idle afternoon.she sat on the chair made of cane, closing her eyes, breathing in large gulps, trying to take all the smells in. one faintly made its way to her nostrils, that of dried lilies from the garden. she followed it and stared out of the iron grille, her garden looked grey in the shade of the setting sun. all noise had settled down into a quiet siesta. she pushed the gate open, tip-toed over the thirsty land, barefeet.

the creaking sound the gate made when pushed, she was immune to. the distant sounds of a couple birds, lost in the golden sky, she was immune to. about the truck that nearly grazed her compound wall, she would never know, she never heard it.

she watched her sleeping cat, in the corner of the garage, and rolled the garden tap open. scanty drops of water made their way out, she had to roll it further. she dragged the hose to the tap, that could wake the cat she feared, all the noise that must have made..

waiting for the water to emerge from the other end of the hose, she looked at her toe-nails, it sure was time for a fresh coat of paint, probably crimson, probably purple, whichever she liked.

as the water lazily gurgled out of the hosepipe, she filled it into the cracks in the thirsty land, the dust that arose choked her. then she moved to her dried lilies, she sprinkled them one by one, wanting to bring each back to life..

as the smell of the earth rose, all the other smells too came alive. she stood there in the middle of her grey garden, trying to take in as many smells as she could, as many smells as there were. from the world that had so intentionally muted itself to her ears..