Every day, I wait at the bus stop for Kiara to hop off. On some days, Sandy, the driver, throws me a treat from the goodies bag stashed in the cup holder. Today, it’s a fortune cookie.
I remember air-kissing my child as she sat in her usual seat—eighth from the front, towards the left—clutching an arrangement of clematis she and I put together for her third-grade teacher.
The next thing I knew, her eyes peered at me from local news channels and pink pamphlets. My phone rang and rang, threatening to fall off the wall. My porch stood inundated with carnations and casseroles I left to rot, the stench seeping into the foyer.
Sandy urges me, her eyes on the sugar envelope, her chin tilting upward.
I crack open the sweet treat and read the paper strip. “Let time heal you.” The peppy children rush to their waiting parents, chattering about their school day.
Seated in the driver seat, Sandy air-hugs me, her kind eyes crinkling at the corners.
A glance at my watch tells me it’s been a year.
I lean on the trellis supporting the clematis, blooming again with purple flowers.
Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar is an Indian American writer. She is the author of Morsels of Purple and Skin Over Milk. She is also a fiction editor at SmokeLong Quarterly.
More at saraspunyfingers.com, X: @PunyFingers