Wisps

by Fatima B. Baduria

With a snap of my fingers and a flick of my hand, my fingertips emulate the glaring sun, as warm and ablaze.

If I wish, they would spring up in rows, bright yellow daffodils, red tulips pink peruvian lilies, and white daisies; they would shift directions at a glance, the wind and tilt of the raindrops, the sunbeams and tree branches, the clouds and their shade below as I recline on a water oak leaf, at ease in the morning breeze.

Then out of the blue came vicious, thundering footfalls trampling on my charms and wishes,

as I run. If I will it, they could cascade at once, cloudburst from the darkest heavens towards the intruders on their arrival, but countless moons have passed since then.

The gnawing bitterness clings to my throat, the days long gone linger in my mind while the dreams of tomorrow continuously fade, as I hide in the depths of shadows, waiting for a glimmer.

Because the years that dragged on waned the flare from my weakening hands, once well-versed.

So if you catch sudden dwindling lights as you hear a snap here and there, it may be me, who waits and wonders if I can hold them all again: the liberty, the bliss, the magic, as wisps of light flutter in my palms then slip away into nothing. F