Flip through the latest issue of Gulf Weekly.
The woman of the house is like the well-ornamented cushion in the lounge. It is expected to look good, smell fresh, be well rounded and equal on all sides.
No one promises to give it attention at all times but everyone misses its absence and complains when the cushion is not comfortable enough. It is punched, pinched and fluffed to fit the backs perfectly.
The cushion is lonely on the couch. The frills and beads on it are sparkling in the sun but the soul is shadowed under the glitter and glamour.
The soft centre waits for the kids to return so it can feel some warmth. But the huge television screen steals the show.
The kids get busy with their school work and play. The cushion is left to attend to this and is barely noticed till it’s needed.
Soon it is sleep time for the kids. The cushion still craving for some tender love and attention waves them off to bed.
In the dying day it waits for the husband. It will be noticed, loved and wanted now. It would be a warm end to a long day. But the tired husband distracted by the work pressure, affected by the long day of corporate slavery pains, moans, turns and tosses to numbing sleep.
It is just another day coming to an end … crushing the thumping desire of recognition.
Something pierces into the soft centre. Is it the bulging pointed bead or the tears choking the throat?
The cushion fluffs itself up. Equals all its edges out and waits for a better tomorrow.
