Ibrahim Almeslat
In our homeland…
bloddomd perish twice;
once in their wilting,
and once when
remembrance of them
is found only by the
graves.
Chandni M
Dried flowers linger near the altar, reminding me of how I’ve forgotten a prayer, I’ve forgotten even a glance,
Dried flowers are looped through the braids in my hair, morning has returned and fragrance has become stench,
Dried streaks of tears down my face struggling to do the math – what time is it now at home?
I pick up my phone in old habit and dial thatha’s number, only to have my mom pick up,
We pause.
She tells me how she hates the smell of fresh flowers, Wreaths and garlands bright as she threw them away.
She tells me to call her number if I want to talk
I tell her to keep his number alive.
Mourning over long distance becomes a complicated calculation of flight costs, work schedules, jet lag, is my presence needed at all, longing to be there, love, loss, reason.
But I find no solution for the grief that weighs like a rock in my gut.
@sarooshsm
fresh red roses
aging with grace and promise
sealed with ink
@windofspring
Dried scented flowers
Between the pages of the book
Bringing memories
