An Hour Passes
by Kala Ramesh

And so, an hour passes . . .

dead body . . .
only the shadows of leaves
dance on her face

My wife died thirteen days ago. To be single again—it's a strange feeling after sixty-six years of togetherness.

Like the River Cauvery that swells in the monsoons then becomes so thin that it seems almost like a drawn line, my family was huge once when my five children were small. Kids take wing and slowly my wife and I grew accustomed to being by ourselves.

My son and my daughter-in-law insist that I will feel miserable in London. I keep telling them that I am ready to go with them. My daughter-in-law says, "But Papa, you have your temple, your friends here. What will you do there? It's a foreign country Papa, try to understand."

How can I tell her that I am frightened to stay alone? Won't my grandchildren laugh at me?

sultry morning:
the chameleon changes
its colors

Kala Ramesh's haibun was published in Simply Haiku