THE DRAGONFLY

Like always I was sunk into my old cane chair; the varnish from its handle faded to pale brown and the jute windings on its backrest, thinned; with its floral pattern now appearing to be a mesh of tangled sewing threads. With my head dropped back on the shoulder and a small red cushion crushed to the canes under my weight at my waist, I gaze at the wall ahead of me. Every time I shift to sit up straight with the cushion sliding further down on my back, the timber of the chair creak like a person cracking knuckles. Timid yet distinc...