regret

Things are not always as they seem.

An old man, his gait unwieldy and back bent, barks at two teenagers across the street. As the ruffians scurry off into the distance, he hangs his head in shame, recalling the memory of his stillborn daughter. The pent-up rage has built up inside of him over the years, with no clear target or means of escape.

Three doors down, almost close enough to smell her perfume, a brunette in a yellow dress embraces a beaming man in plaid. Unbeknownst to him, only minutes ago she kissed her beau farewell as her husband's familiar flannel shirt entered the foyer.

Through the upstairs window of their pristine abode, beyond their close-knit forms - already indistinguishable from each other - one can see a woman peering down from the balcony next door. By all appearances content, cooing softly to her young charges (luckily in her care only for the day), the surrogate mother seems lost in thought.

On closer inspection, however, one might catch a glimpse of wistfulness in her otherwise neutral eyes, perhaps noting that they have ceased to sparkle when she smiles. They are seen less and less often with each day that passes.

Nostalgia for a life once lived - and for the person she used to be, before she knew the ways of the world - burrows its way through the clay that is her brain, whispering empty promises to the deep recesses of her mind.

If only for some semblance of unfettered appreciation, sans bells, whistles, or strings, the honorary matriarch takes on job after job. Spreading herself thin, like butter over too much bread, she overfills her life - pushing herself to the utmost limit - until every possible cup runneth over.

What she seeks, however, lies not in academia. Nor does it reside behind a desk or within a cubicle. The sheer bliss of unconditional love, even just some acknowledgement of a life well lived, an emotion perfectly expressed, is her nourishment. Her sustenance.

Unfortunately, she has spent her entire life in a famine.