Riya put the phone down. It was true, time was a thief, and it was stealing everything away from her. Just under different guises. The husband she had loved for 32 years, stolen by cancer; the daughter she had nurtured to adulthood, stolen by university; the job she had cherished, stolen by recession. All she had left were her memories. Soon, those would be gone too.
She stared out of her window, hypnotised by the shrubbery that grew wild and unkept, like ghostly shadows reaching for a blackening sky, as silence hung in the air like a suspended moment. Eventually all that was visible was her own piteous reflection. Slowly she made her way to turn on the radio. And then, like a message from a merciful God, Doris Day’s voice came, clear and sure, “Que Cera, Cera, Whatever will be, will be”.
It was as if a spark had been lit in her dead heart prompting some timeless repressed memory to surge up from the recess of her cobwebbed mind. Her spirit liberating her body from the shackles of gravity, her back straightened up, her shoulders dropped back, and her arms rose to take position. 1-2-3, 2-2-3, 3-2-3, the beat called. A spin, a reverse turn, a double reverse spin, and she kept on waltzing, kept on waltzing.
She whirled ceaselessly, permitting her mind flight to where her body no longer went, drinking in the music through every pore in her parched body, allowing it to calm all regrets. She whirled until she had stolen the best part of herself back from time, until she had reclaimed the reins to her life.

Que Cera, Cera; Whatever will be, Will be;

The future is not ours to see…

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