Waiting for the bus

The last leaves are falling from the trees, leaving them bare and naked, ready for winter, ready to die for a living. With the same movement – I imagine – drops of water are falling from my hands, while I’m moving them ritually as I have done nearly every day for almost two decades. I whisper the name of God, fill my right hand with water, and slowly bring it up to my mouth. These are the same movements I’ve been doing a whole lifetime, since I was a small child taught by my mother to cleanse myself, to get rid of my sins day in day out, to prepare for the meeting.. My nose, face, arms, head, ears and feet also pass the revenue, all in their own distinct way, but always once or thrice, a fixed odd number of times. My sins fall off my shoulders with every drop.. will they always be falling off so easily?
I’m waiting for the bus. The wind blows my veil towards all directions, I shiver. Then it’s quiet for a while, my clothes fall on me like a protecting angel, covering everything that no one has the right to see.
I feel my leaves falling slowly, I feel that I must die for a living, just like the trees, my sun can’t keep shining forever, I must complete my winter.