Colored pens

Sitting in the left corner of the seating in a cafe, I noticed a girl scratching a wound above her brow. I asked her if she wanted anything. She smiled at me, showing her pale broken milk teeth and asked me to buy the colourful pens she had been told to sell.

I glanced at the pens, leaned forward and offered her an ear as I asked her name. “Nisha”, she squeaked, giving a lot to her throat to swallow. I looked at her brown sweater, it smelled of fish. Her hands were still showing me the coloured pens, which made me think about what I used to do at her age. Colour all my books, the walls of my room and my fancy files with similar pens.

I knew I didn’t need any of them at the moment, and maybe she knew it too. Her eyes taught me of hope in the tired shallow world, I was surrounded by. I couldn’t help but give her hope a little feather. I recalled the time when I was at her age, I surely valued the coloured pens more than the money.

I fetched out a note for her and saw her smile grow brighter. I couldn’t help adding any more colour to her life, besides walking away with the coloured pens she gave me.

-AXA