the one in which she was happy

This has to be the most beautiful winter ever.

Morning after morning of sun that I swim in, in tea that almost scalds, slides smooth along my insides like John Legend drenches my eardrums, my senses, slowly, I slide into the plastic lawn chair, cold, ticklish grass underfoot and this could be the new definition of bliss in my book.

And this is just the perfect mix: of hope, a sense of achievement, a little disappointment, a few reality checks, just the right amount of heartache and tears, the balance of uncertainty and faith, the best friends, the right attitude, confidence with a dash of self-doubt, of memorable afternoon drives, and aloneness-in-crowds, of long, cold yet warming bathroom-floor conversations, of goodbyes, and realisations, and lessons.

I stand on the edge of the Margalla road, emerging from a strangely liberating three hour meeting, in the three o' clock sun, as cars whizz by me and I am aware I never learnt how to cross roads, and I am small again as the road stretches out ahead of me, and my bright red dupatta dances in front of my face but there's a taste of green tea and success in my mouth and as I walk along the road at the foot of tall, swaying trees, me - tiny and insignificant, I still feel invincible.