The Broken Crayons

As usual, the day has fallen short of time. She had so much to do; she couldn’t get to all of it. A day full of mistakes. She is exhausted as she moves about the house, switching off lights, picking up toys. And then she steps on them. Crayons.

All shades of colour in a bright green pack. And she has stepped on the box, breaking, it seems, all of them. She bends and takes the crayons out, spreading them on the dining table.

The broken crayons lie there, broken and tired. So much like her.

She stares at them, her mind -which always seems to be in in a rush thinking of the things to do and things that have been done- seems to slow down. She picks one of the broken crayons and scribbles on the table. It still colours. She tries the next one, and then the next one. They colour too.So much like her.

She smiles. Yes, she has colour left in her too. Life cannot take that out of her. Tomorrow will be a new day.

She carefully puts the crayons back inside the pack. The broken crayons that still hold myriad colours. So much like her.

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