[1] Thumbprint in Dough as Homeland. Recorded on the back of a shipping manifest. The recipe lost. The gesture remains. Each loaf shaped like a prayer that never quite rose.
[2] Red Thread, East Window. Found knotted around an immigration form. The thread snapped in customs. No one could explain its use. Still, someone packed it.
[3] On Whistling After Dark. This law was never written. It travelled in blood. It was broken in the new country where everything was louder and ghosts came anyway.
[4] The Ritual of Folding Clothes for the Suitcase. Author: all our mothers. Only rule: leave some behind. Regret will be waiting on the other side.
[5] The Proper Care of Basil When the Soil Has Changed. Original climate no longer applicable. Still watered as if the sun remembered.
[6] A Knife Not Meant for Cutting. Declared at the airport. Confiscated. It was not sharp, only sacred. The officer did not understand the difference.
[7] Lullabies With No Translation. Sounded strange in strange rooms. Children forgot the words first. Mothers hummed under their breath, pretending not to notice.
[8] The Covering of Mirrors Before Departure. Done without knowing why. Cloth placed gently. A custom folded into muscle. The reflection was too much to carry.
[9] Why We Do Not Speak Certain Names in the New Country. Not out of shame. But out of reverence. But out of protection. But out of something the language couldn’t hold.
[10] Cloves Sewn into Hemlines. A girl stitched them into her school uniform. They were called strange. She wore them anyway.
[11] The Forgotten Saints of Border Crossings. No icons. No feast days. Just the women who walked alone and didn’t lose the thread.
[12] Say It Softly or Not At All. A catalogue of blessings for things left behind: olive oil, soft bread, the key under the mat. An entire village of longing folded into a goodbye.
[13] Last Entry. A woman, at the sink, washing fruit she doesn’t recognise.
She places it in a bowl from the old place.
She says nothing.
The water carries the rest.
Note –
This archive is incomplete.
Some entries were buried with the speakers.
Some were rewritten in the language of forgetting.
Some arrived too early. Some too late.
Still,
they come.
