Cast them into the wind We arrive at the shore eroded since we were last here & recite the first line of a prayer water is water is water. At home, my wife puts her hand on my own to stop me from adding too much masala to the pot. After dinner I carry our child, sunburnt & sleepy, to their bed where they ask for a story. There are the things they don’t tell you about grief. It can be the sound of blood running across the sky & also the softest brush of a wing. I get up to turn off the light and put down the book one more chapter? I ease back down gently sweep the sand from the floor & begin.
About the Author: Hilesh Patel is a writer, consultant, educator, artist and member of the art group The Chicago ACT Collective. He was born in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania and has called Chicago home for most of his life. His work has been published in Passengers Journal, Relief Journal, Jaggery and others. You can find him most days teaching adjunct classes, reading, grinding cardamom, and on Instagram and Twitter at @hilesh.
Image Credit: Hugo Simberg “The Wind Blows” (1897) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 