Sweeter than Fiction
Anoushka Chauhan
This kindergarten teacher taught
me to circle words I don’t know the
meaning of so I can expand my
vocabulary. I circled expand and
vocabulary, I drew a circle around
a dead moth and a wispy flower
caught pink in its dying moments.
This year lasted a year longer
roughly by a day more everyday.
The circles grew—around words
reconciliation and repose and rest, then
under my mother’s eyes, then mine
till I saw one take the shape of my
body, a halo around the morning
Sun, black dots spotting my vision.
Old magazines got displaced from
shelves, the mantel shrunk to the
size of ten photographs. The dust
grew red and settled a while ago,
and the houses on this lane don’t
register as homes anymore. I circle
the word over and over, a chalky
perimeter around a white picket fence.
What I miss is who I was. Fireflies
gracing a muddy path we cycle
down each day. I miss words
without weight, a baby’s shrill
laugh. I miss the sky changing
color each time I look up at it,
paper airplanes in my heart.
Anoushka Chauhan is a law student writing from India. She loves owls, the color red, and the occasional Monty Python movie. Her other works can be found featured or forthcoming in the Harbor Review, Parentheses Journal, Sublunary Review, and others.