A is for An Announcement #bloggingfromatoz #NaPoWriMo 2022

Dear Readers,

I decided to jump into the familiar excitement of the blogging challenge of A to Z this year at 10 pm, last night which happened to be the 31st of March. I'd been toying with the idea of giving it a miss this year on account of lack of preparedness and a big lack of time. But, the pull of this challenge is too irresistible. So, here I am. 

This year's badge is a tribute to Jeremy Hawkins, the official graphics guy for the A to Z Challenge, who passed away.

I'm also participating in the #NaPoWriMO2022 for two reasons: 1) Because I love poetry. and 2) Because I want to learn how to craft better poems. And as practice is the only way to get better, I thought I'd give myself an entire month of limited time to write to invite the muse to work with me.

Thank you for being here.

You know I'd love to find out what you think of my poem today, if you'd like to share.

Happy Friday.

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Day One Prompt

An Announcement

The white spots on the base of her throat hadn’t responded to the steroid cream her GP had prescribed. If anything, the pale white spots had turned red, angry and frustrated. Deep down, in the recesses of her heart, where her Indian heritage lived and guided her actions and thoughts—about love, the self but never about the two together—she knew. But she buried the knowing under fluffy blankets of optimism on a cold, clear autumn morning in West London and went to see her GP.

“It’s Vitiligo.” He announced, without taking his eyes off of the UV light he was holding on the red, blotchy spots which used to be brown skin but were assimilating with the whiteness of the country she’d migrated to.

“No!” concrete tears stuck in her throat. She sobbed out, “Really?”

“At least it’s not cancer.” The GP offered solace. “It’s only superficial!” he hammered the concrete, hammered her hopes.

She left the clinic. Outside, the blue sky was sparkling with autumn sunshine. The air was crisp. She unwrapped her scarf. The air hit the spots. She’d kept them covered for over six months with scarves, turtle necks in summer and band-aids in the swimming pool. She let them drink in the air—at last. But her feet, her knees, her brown heritage sitting deep inside her trembled like an earthquake—seismic shifts to how she’d look when the white spots start to grow, multiply and mutate her skin, her body and how people will see 'her' made her slump on the road, outside the GP’s clinic, under a large chestnut tree full of red, yellow and golden leaves that once were green.

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