A Child At Sixteen.

A lone, perfectly formed drop of honey

Slid down her plump fingers, cascaded down her almond nails

Fell softly into a bowl of warm water, making no noise at all

Her small brown eyes, swam with delight at the sight

Forty seven, Forty Eight, Forty nine, she kept counting

The drops still delighted her, the water didn’t complain

It rather, maybe liked it, for it was slowly turning into a golden bath

Silently submitting itself to the girl’s play

Noiselessly getting clad in the golden garb

Eighty nine, Ninety, Ninety one, she kept counting

The drops now dropped like rain, a heavy downpour

And then suddenly, the bowl tips over

The honey just falls all in, the water is no more

The girls almost squeals with delight and turns around

To face a very funny looking woman

Who was seething, and puffing and red

“Isn’t that magical, Sarita?” The girl says, unable to contain her happiness.

Sarita firmly pushes her out of the kitchen, shuts it close

The girl looks on pleadingly at the locked door and sits down

Sarita weeps bitter tears of desperation

Her forty year old self was now used to this daily madness

The sixteen year old outside the door never grew a day old

After she turned four.