Wave

by Sonali Deraniyagala

I trembled as I peered at that hundred-rupee note in his hand. The last time I saw one of those, I had a world.

And everywhere, on bare ground and between cracks in the floors, tiny pink and white flowers that flourish along the seashore forced their way up. Mini mal, or graveyard flowers, they are called. I resented this renewal. How dare you heal.

So this is me now, loitering on the outskirts of the life we had.