Because if you do—if you really do—you see the space around her shape. A slight warp in the light. A cold that doesn’t come from the river breeze. The sound of a woman sobbing, not in grief, but in hunger . Not hunger for rice. Hunger for an apology that never came.
The Wound of the Wat
I leave a bottle of red Fanta at her shrine. The sugar is for her. The red is for the wound that never closes.