The Sky That Betrayed Us
The morning was ordinary—
milk boiling in pans,
children tying shoelaces with dreams still half-awake.
The city yawned, unaware
that the sky was planning
a funeral.
The flight lifted
like a promise,
a silver bird with hearts strapped in—
some texting "boarding now,"
some holding prayer beads.
No one knew
the sky would open its jaws
like a god gone mad.
I read their names in the news—
a couple returning from a wedding,
a mother flying for her daughter’s surgery,
a boy who loved planes
but never dreamed of dying inside one.
They say
the engines failed.
They say
weather turned rogue.
They say
black boxes will tell the truth.
But what do boxes know
of the girl who waited at Arrivals
holding marigolds and a placard that said “Papa”?
I heard that the wreckage scattered
near a school,
and a child drew a plane
with broken wings
on her notebook that night.
I do not know these people,
but my womb ached
as if I had lost
my own.
Isn’t that what grief is?
A stranger’s death
pulling apart your ribs
like it belonged to you?
They will build reports,
announce compensation,
blame wind or metal or man.
But who will console
the chai vendor at the terminal
who still waits for familiar footsteps?
Somewhere,
a ringtone still rings
inside a crushed suitcase,
and no one picks up.
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