A.V

The pyre is ready. The sky is overcast. The body lies on top. Two bullet wounds. A boy, eight years old, steps forward. His hands shake around the torch. He lights his father’s body. He saw him die. Shot in front of his eyes. His mother collapses. The family gathers what remains of themselves. The ritual ends. We walk back through fields of rice, surrounded by green. Clouds break open, thunder claps. Rain falls heavy and slow just as the flashback hits the mind. Each drop presses the earth closer to our feet. The sky cries into my hair, down my cheeks, into my clothes. People scramble to hide their phones, but I stand still, letting the water have me. Is this a Kairos? It feels like one, with the rain striking at such a moment. I am eighteen, a callow being, still learning what moments matter. We reach his home. Everyone sits solemnly in unison, in silence as rain pours. It soaks us completely, until the sorrow thins only slightly, but enough to stand again. We all rise a m...