I saw Mrs. Singh today. There was a pleasant smile on her beautiful face as her eyes met mine. She waved at me, as she was watering her pretty flowers, placed in the delicately decorated pots. She had decorated the pots herself with the pastels and all the colors she could find. I reminisced that day when she was painting the outside of the pots with the bright shades of yellows and blues, smiling at me, as she would always do. Her smile was just like the decorated pots – colorful and bright, illuminating and passing on others the positive energy that was within her. Anyone would be filled with warmth and colors when they met her beaming face. As I was walking by, the sun falling in both of our faces, I gazed at the flowers. Under the sunlight, they were golden, shining even more than they usually do. They glowed differently under the silver moonlight, but their beauty never faded. Just like her flowers, Mrs. Singh always shined, grounded to her roots, to her family, to her home. The fact of her being grounded to such an uncomplicated environment made her a happy woman. My eyes searched for another figure beside her, yet there was no one there. Her lovely husband was usually always away, but the love between them was immeasurable. Although, when he was actually beside her, the amount of love her eyes held when she looked at him was simply beautiful. There was a different kind of shimmer in her eyes as she would sigh and take deep breaths with fidgeting hands. Magical how love changes the whole demeanor of a person.
As she was waving at me, I noticed a mark on her left hand, a little below the wrist. Somewhat like a dark bruise. My mind telling me just that instant that she must have burned herself, while making a perfect meal for her perfect husband. What else could be the reason of the mark’s existence, keeping in mind how perfect Mrs. Singh’s life was? But what surprised me the most was that just as she noticed me acknowledging that mark, her pretty forehead formed creases and her aura felt tensed. Her smile flickered and her eyes turned to a shade of blue, like one of her flower pots. She tugged at the sleeves of her beige colored sweater in an attempt to conceal the mark, but my eyes had seen the hidden mark. It was in plain sight for me, very much visible. What other marks she was concealing were hard to find. The dark tint on her skin peeking from the little holes of her sweater sleeves was raising many questions in my head. But they were all dismissed as I looked up at her face which carried that pretty smile again. And the sight of the blooming flowers made me feel relaxed. Women like Mrs. Singh who always smile and give one warm vibes don’t have any secrets to keep.
“How are you, Mrs. Singh?” I asked.
She replied, “I’m as lovely as these flowers.”
But her flowers had invisible thorns, just like she had no secrets.