Curtain Fall

It rains. In small dainty drops of virgin brides.

My aunt doesn't seem to mind. I see her talking to her cow. In cross section- through the iron bars on my window.

The orange chintz curtain, from the cloth that my uncle in one of his travels brought back. Along with his mistress. Family secrets that do not deserve to be told.

That's why my aunt must have cut the pretty cloth- the joy in shaping at least something.

And my cousin. His hands that turned green whatever they touched.

Food that were laced with green peppers. Spices of varying scents, flavors and textures. All from his garden. His garden which changed tastes to suit his mood. There was the summer of anger. The winter of colorlessness. And the spring that never blossomed.

When I came back from my travels, he asked me what I had brought for him.

No green saplings. No brown seeds. No red flowers. No earth touched roots.

The only thing that I could afford to carry was my loss. It occupied all the space there was.