I was walking along the road,
the morning unraveling slowly,
while I saw a group of boys in crumpled messy uniforms
laughing loudly at something ordinary,
as they chewed over where life would take them,
their voices bright,
like coins scattered on concrete.
I saw a little boy standing at a flower stall,
choosing carefully
a red and yellow gerbera,
sunlight cupped in petals,
and handed it to his mother
who had already paid
but smiled and received it like a gift.
On the bus,
I took the window seat,
a front-row view of the world continuing.
I saw a man steadying a woman
as she climbed the steps,
one hand on the rail,
the other holding a prescription file,
from a gynecologist.
Perhaps welcoming a new life.
I saw a child
sitting on my left
carrying two baby chickens
pressed gently to his lap,
fragile heartbeats
he hoped to keep alive.
At a crossing,
I saw two friends
threading their fingers together
before stepping into traffic,
as if courage
were something shared.
In less than an hour
between my home and university
I saw life,
small, stubborn, ordinary life,
repeating itself
without permission.
And I was grateful
for not surrendering
to the quiet pull
of ending it all,
on October 4th, 2020.
Or in the middle of March 2022.
Or February 8th, 2023.
Or any of the unnamed days
that tried to convince me
there was nothing left for me to see.
Because there was this,
laughter in wrinkled uniforms,
flowers paid for twice,
prescriptions folded with hope,
two lives in careful hands,
shared warmth before crossing.
There was this and
I was glad
I was still here,
breathing, living, witnessing it all.