Somewhere in the world, it must be the coldest day of the year. I force my hands through a pair of my grandmother's gloves. The left one has a stain the dry cleaner could not remove. The beads have begun to fray. When she died, I thought winter would never end. Do not mourn the dead, warned Lispector, they know what they are doing. I drop tiny pearls in my path. It never snows in Lahore. The sky is suspended with mist. People sell boiled eggs on the street. An excuse for warmth. Walking to the car, I pause near trees, anticipate birdsong. But it is only a squirrel chattering in the wind. When I cross a red signal by mistake, the officer smiles at me. It is early in the morning and everything I want is leaving me. I want to place my head in the lap of forgetfulness. I want to be in love again. cycles of light indifferent to our wounds the moon waxes again
Aiman Tahir Khan (Fri,) studied this question.