APRICITY

For the first time in weeks, Nala was happy. I could tell by the rosy sheen on her cheeks, which replaced the pale, sometimes sallow, hue that earlier rested on them. The soil on her husband’s grave should have dried out by now, but the rains made it seem like he was laid there just yesterday.
But again, that’s exactly how she felt.

He made her a widow at 70, and although Nala knew his end was near, she wasn’t fully prepared to let go. The house that was once warmed by the fire of their love grew cold. His hearty laughter no longer echoed through the house, a laughter that was an answered prayed for the redamancy she had always hoped and wished for as a girl. But that is how grief is: It is a door that opens unceremoniously, filling the room with cold air that we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.

“Whatever is on your mind better be worth you ignoring me!” she said chuckling, breaking me from my train of thoughts. I could see that Nala’s door of grief had been shut, because there she was sitting pretty, sipping on her mocha while staring at the roaring and unforgiving storm that was loud on the window. We chatted the morning away, washed the stories down with bottomless mimosas and cemented it in with the creamy salted caramel cake slices that were offered as part of the brunch.

As the rain subsided, we staggered our way out. For the first time in a while, the sun lazily peeked over the clouds in a dazzling orange cast. With closed eyes, Nala broke into a smile, and opened her arms to take it all in. As if on cue, the apricity covered her in a soft embrace, reminding her that even on the coldest and darkest of days, hope is still within reach.
And in that moment, that’s exactly how she felt.
Hopeful.