bereavement defiles my tidy little neighbourhood. tragedy reeks in the street across.

a young boy, whom i grew up across from, killed two weeks ago. from the very same house with the mango tree; tilted permanently by the weight of its fruits and the smacks it was delivered to get to them.

i feel and hate my bubble more than ever at this moment.

i quietly look on as mom meets the parting family, bold in their grief and outrage. the young girl, amina, always arching to be a grownup, now striking for the pain on her face. she is dazed as she carries a dusty telephone to the back of the waiting car. this isn't how she imagined she'd say goodbye to the house she grew up in.

the boys, weighed down by the sum of tragedy placed on their unsteady shoulders. wrinkled shirts, greasy hair, unshaven faces. all speak of early stages of grief. these were the mischievous boys, the "lahori" boys, who sometimes catcalled, always played loud music, and religiously kept me awake on basant nights. aged by years now.

more familiarity departs. slowly and steadily my world is crumbling. crumbling, crumbling..