She is busy stitching the pockets of a school bag.
In and out. Criss and cross.
The bag is heavy like her shoulders.
Torn like her clothes.
Roughed up like her skin.
But the bag carries knowledge while she desires for some.
She has been doing this job for a living.
She repairs the slider.
She slides it up and down.
She opens the bag and imagines words, analogies, tales, wars and numbers
Emanating from the bag.
As if teasing her about her emptiness, even though matter made her.
Is that not enough?
She feels the parallel pattern of lines on the bag and imagines the lines students form during morning assemblies.
She knows this as she has bolted her feet outside school gates, more than a dozen times.
She imagines her joy if she was in one of those lines.
She missed out on all of it.
Now this is all she wants;
All she desires;
All she has a passion for.
A school life.