"The lack of a home, or compassion you get in this cruel world is not reflective of your character."

Every day, she’d repeat the refrain: “মেঘ বলেছে যাব যাব…” (Megh boleche jabo jabo / The rain said she’ll go away, far away), while dotting the cups with washable markers, as the color bloomed into the foam and stained her fingers.

Sometimes I would reach for something—a word, a reaction—and feel for it the way you check your pockets for keys, only to realize I had left it outside the door without noticing when.

All this time, I had imagined
I was becoming
That there was a becoming
I bowed down, hands splayed
towards an inescapable abundance
Begging for the becoming

Autumn with its tender shedding, the staccato voices of children in the street. Unfinished puzzle pieces left out on a coffee table waiting to be joined, the patio screen door held open by a rusted silver washer. We drank mint iced tea outside with our bare feet brushing against the bogor moss and talked about people from church who felt more like family than friends.