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Redundancy

Susie Gharib

    It is the ninth of August and the pavement glistens with a reluctant drizzle that has cooled the air in the aftermath of a worsening heat wave. Is this climate change? I do not want to politicize this halcyon day. I view the greying clouds and think of Autumn that has been eclipsed in these apocalyptic days. It is either extreme cold or excruciating heat, a contagion that has spread from the political sphere.
    I loosen my hair that has been estranged from the nape of my neck for days. Summer makes it bristly and it does not surprise me that some men shave theirs. And though no hairdryer has given it any particular stylish shape, I feel the return of my exiled elegance with every breeze-ruffled thread.
    I boast no beauty in the Autumn of my days. I shall be sixty in a matter of weeks. My clothes and attitude exasperate everyone around me for I do not look or act my age. I have opted for early retirement despite a pension that would only make me subsist. I have bought a bottle of pale-blue ink, a rarity these days, and I am going to write my stories with a fountain pen, my equivalent to a medieval quill.
    “Retirement is a boring thing! How do you intend to fill long hours of no employment?” everyone reiterates.
    I think I will have no time to breathe, with so many books to read, so many interests to research, and so many poems and stories to create. I do not mind being lectured by the voice of wisdom when it utters its creed, but I find it hard to digest remarks from those who spend a large portion of their day backbiting and smoking the hubble-bubble at home and in street cafes. I do not know how to explain to the shallow-minded, who asses the worth of a person according to the amount of money she/he earns, that I shall begin freeliving on my first day of retirement despite financial impoverishment.



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