It comes to me like an early blanket of uninvited darkness, strangling the setting sun of my November days, sometimes, soaring surreptitiously between the buildings standing tall with pride and the others, digging out of graveyard like white bones of frost bitten skeleton creeping over the fields and highways, through cities and towns.

It clings to me like a parasite, sucking my blood and chewing me small again, hinders me helpless like a player turned mere spectator. I drop my bat down, to shamefully find it is crayons smudged into purple hues of water colour, as it takes me back to my therapist’s chair.

"Is it getting any better?" I do not reply and somewhere in her memory she remembers I do not like to be questioned yet the skin near her lips twitches to move her lips inaudible like a fluttering butterfly. Forty fifth time in this hair, we spend thirty minutes of my therapy in silence before I stand, like an aching twig, to leave. She assures me, as death before resurrection, darkness before dawn, snow caps must melt before vibrant ribbons of spring.

Shweta Yadav