Asmara was light-eyed and dark skinned and smelled like sweat and cinnamon.
Asmara told me of his great home. Of his family, of his house on a hill and his son. And how that son came to be. How he grew to hate his son’s mother who he once loved.
Most of all, Asmara had dreams but those dreams did not include me.
So my dreams should not include him. But they do.
Cancer starts as just one cell that your body neglects to kill. Then it festers and takes you away. Eats away at your breast tissue and your spirit. Your loved ones will mourn for you.
Eat rice at your funeral they will
laugh or cry or both.
But one day, you will all but be forgotten because they that keep you alive;
will be gone too.
I don’t quite know what I am or who I am yet. Sometimes I dream of a life far removed from what I have now. But that is silly. Life is what it is, and what is it?
I don’t know. What is life? You tell me.