Snow falls soundless.
I cook onions in turmeric,
Why my thoughts tangle with you
I cannot say.
You were the gentlest of your family.
An artistic soul floundering among steadfast rationalists.
I pour coconut milk over chickpeas.
The color blends mustardly golden, the scent of curry rises.
Your Indian father would not acknowledge you.
I know he didn’t want to be responsible.
I stir the chickpeas, the onions.
The aroma fills the air.
Simmer, the recipe says.
Some days you are not far from thought.
Today, I wish you’d chosen other.
I wish you’d seen a grander picture.
How short life is without cutting it yourself.
I liked the picture of us. Two old biddies
sitting on rocking chairs, commenting on life.
Now it’s only me. And the picture isn’t as sweet.