Dust to smoke

AND now my thoughts are with a girl, a young girl…

…who lit her husband’s pyre this morning in a strange city, a city she had brought him to be cured -- lit it with her heart breaking, but with no tear in her eye.

…who sat immobile in the morning sun watching the smoke curl up lazily and said, quietly, “Look, amma, there’s Anjum going.”

…who sat on his cot and held his hand and prayed and prayed and prayed he would wake up once more -- just once more -- so she could “tell him again all the things I have told him so many times.”

…who, when living became too painful for him -- unbearably painful -- and yet he fought on, had the courage to say, “Quit any time you want... it’s okay.”

…who, before death smothered him in a coma, had only a single prayer in her bursting heart, “I just want his pain to be less… he is suffering so much.”

…who dried the tears of his parents and was a tower of strength for them at the final farewell… because… “Because he was like that, no?”

On Sunday, after dispersing the ashes of a full life, she will fly back to an empty house, an empty city, an empty life.

I don’t have enough thoughts for her. Spare a few, if you can.