Oindrila Ghosal’s short story is captivating, enthralling, and haunting in the same breath.
The sunshine from the missing shingles poured on her face and she was woken up to the horror of the evening’s cigarette lingering on her breath. She scratched her tousled head and breathed in the cup of her hands. A home that usually smelled of the mother’s cherry blossom crèmes and the oven-fresh scones was nauseatingly submerged in the crude smoke. She was convinced that the pleated school skirt in the laundry bag with the other dirty linen bore the remnants of the crushed daisies and the aroma specific to the Asteraceae that no amount of fresh air could wipe out. She reclined her back against the stacked pillows and pulled the mink blanket up to her chin.