October 24, 2024

by SINDWA KANYIMBA

A Dry Spell

Winter felt as cold as it should be, with goosebumps grazing the arm and making love to a fleece.

Grey lost her father, and now she’s making her best friend’s shirt moist with all her tears.

Head in her chest, but her best friend doesn’t mind because the moment is warm and special, like feeding cake to a little girl.

Loss is a different kind of hurt that creates a hollow in the body and can lead one into a realm of depression.

The deep cramp of her words still echoes in my mind when she says, “Some wounds don’t need to heal.”

Some wounds are stubborn; they never stop hurting.

They just never stop hurting.

Her facial expression matches my turquoise t-shirt; it’s hard to distinguish whether it’s green or blue.

So is she serene, or is she sad? Because contentment and misery seem to share the same compartment.

It always rained joy when her father was around, but now it’s a dry spell.

Loss is a monster, and the feeling is similar to when you’re told to get up and run when you have a fractured leg.

The deep cramp of her words still echoes in my mind when she says, “Some wounds don’t need to heal.”

Some wounds are really stubborn; they never stop hurting.

They just never stop hurting.

Death takes away the breath of our loved ones when we least expect it.

Its patience, heavy as a truck, hangs on to a loose thread, and so we never get to see a sum of moons a little longer.

It’s able to suffocate a rose before it buds and then finds satisfaction in our sorrows when tears form streams flowing down our cheeks.

And now we seek rain-making tactics in our efforts to revive a smile on our faces. 

The deep cramp of her words still echoes in my mind when she says, “Some wounds don’t need to heal.”

Some wounds are stubborn; they never stop hurting.

They just never stop hurting.