By Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar
behind my truck —with her in the passenger seat beside me—across state and interstate highways to the shore line because she loves long drives with country music blaring from the stereo, because a beach house is something she’d always wanted, because I can’t imagine buying another property and living in rooms without her smell, her bronze hair on the floor, because I know when I sprinkle her on the ocean she will ride the waves gleefully and blow kisses at me, because from the deck that I plan to build I can play her my flute every night and watch her glint in the sun every day till my skin turns leathery and my eyes rheumy.
Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar is an Indian American. She was born in a middle-class family in India and will forever be indebted to her parents for educating her beyond their means. She is a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee; her work has been published online in Fictive Dream, Spelk Fiction, The Ellipsis zine, Lunch Ticket, and also in print, most recently in the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. She blogs at Puny Fingers and can be reached at twitter @PunyFingers.