Retreat

by Victoria Adukwei Bulley

4
Ruby says nothing.
Ruby cuts a tube of penne in half with the side of her fork, a slow-motion blade stooping to kiss the back of my neck. A warning. Eat, before it gets cold; before you forget how to do it. Until now, I jigsawed her exposition to find the best fit.
Satisfied, I clean my plate.

3
I haven’t seen a wasp in years, but there are wasps here, larger than the ones I remember. Padma, our retreat leader, climbs the bunk bed, removes a hornet from the room with a cup.

2
Evan is a sixty-five year old retired father, just like Dad. You remind me of my dad, I tell him, the only difference being, of course, that you’re white.

4
Everybody has bought and is studying one of the many dharma books on sale here, except Alastair, 84, who reads Alistair Cooke, instead.

5
I am in the shrine room, closest to Buddha, when Evan is crying. We two are the last ones left, but the room – though vacant – is loud with her, humming Susan, Susan, between each caught breath.

1
The week begins when I turn off my phone. I delete the world as an infant does. I keep my palms flush over my eyes, until I realise I do not own a watch or an alarm clock.

8
Brother, may you be well. May you be happy. May you be free from suffering.

7
On the last evening, a sunset. My turn in the kitchen. Ruby offers to take my shift, so that I can walk with the others. It is the first time she’s volunteered to speak to me, and when she calls me, I hear it like a song, and begin to love my name.

6
Barbora waves until my rear view mirror swings her face and wind-up hand out of sight. I will see her again, several times. I don’t know this. Or, too, that she will even visit my house, sit with me on the floor of my parents’ room, where it is quiet. Or that whenever I picture her, no matter how much in the future, she will always be waving goodbye.

With kind permission of the poet