The soft singing of the afternoon light fills the library cafeteria. My daughter learns to walk between the tables; her tiny hand curled around my husband’s index finger. The air swells with coffee and pasta. Pages turn in the corner, voices murmur, children run, laughter ricochets. My fingers warm around the curvature of my cup, and my eyes follow the steep lines in my book. Warsan Shire writes, “Mama, I made it out of your home alive, raised by the voices in my head” a

The unoccupied bench beside me shakes along with me, a type of resonance between a living and inanimate object. I realize how everything, when left untouched, joins us in lamenting the absence.

ugust carries a heaviness like no other, the sky cries and cries and cries, the weight of it all is what we feel”, said my Daadi while moving back and forth in front of my eyes, staring right into the gap between two Ashoka trees in our garden. I looked at her both bewildered and enchanted