It has been a week since he passed. The wound he left behind was cut
open every now and then by the memories that refused to leave.
Kamala stood near a small wooden door looking at the photos of Hassan hanging on the wall. It was his 8-year-old self with a football under his feet and a huge smile on his face even though he was missing a few teeth.
Beside this photo was another. He looked a bit older may be 12 or 13.
He was holding his younger brother and was trying to make him laugh
by making funny faces. It was taken from right outside this house near
the old mango tree, on a summer evening. Now its branches had grown
weaker and its leaves thinner.
Kamala’s eyes fell on the last photo. It was a family photo and was recently taken. Unlike the other ones this was taken from a tourist spot. Both Hassan’s mother and father was sitting and he was standing beside them. His little brother had taken the spot on his mother’s lap. All of them had put on their best clothes and their brightest smiles.
Kamala eyes wandered onto the blank space beside this photograph
only to witness fine cracks on the walls. There won’t be any more photos where he grows older. He was forever young. Time left the dead alone. His mother was laying in the bedroom. She was too tired to speak or to cry. Kamala’s mother sat beside her. They have known each other for a long time, perhaps she could comfort her. Although there were people around, the house felt empty.
Kamala reached the stairs and kneeled down to open the cupboard.
Inside she found a dusty black box just like he had said. It was tiny and
weightless. She made sure that no one was watching her and quickly put it inside her bag. She didn’t wait for her mother, she left as soon as
she found the box.
