No comments
on memories that are and are not mine
I can see her walking away from me—white dress clinging on hips swaying, twist of torso in diagonal folds, thighs toning to the incline of steep jagged road, carrying wedding cake atop her head. She is flanked by other brown skinned women climbing hills with cake, one hand occasionally rising to steady sweet cargo. I wish I knew her face. That I could run to catch her, look longingly up into her gentleness, and stride to nuptials hand-in-hand. From a far-off distance—like drone camera hovering—I can see them beyond the crowd of villagers’ (men, women and children): pairs and pairs… read more
