Combing Through by Garima Behal

Combing through my wet hair, I pause. Broken strands fall onto my hands, my nape, my back, and onto the bare, swept floor. Dead. Scattered.

I know this is what happens when the comb of years runs through thin strands of memories housed in the partitions of my mind.

Combing through the years, I’m left with sliced memories like diced apples with their core discarded.

Once a part of all that I was, No longer a part of all I could be.