This Day

Snow falls soundless.

I listened.

I cook onions in turmeric,

add garlic.

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.

 

Sascha Darlington