missing

she smiles at me and speaks in a language i used to understand. we have the same cheeks. wrinkled, versus smooth.

i don’t know how to hug her. she doesn’t either. she pats my hand, and i pretend that’s enough.

we sit in silence until someone sings happy birthday. i don’t recognize the words but the melody’s the same.

i leave. i get on a plane and go home an ocean away. years pass by too quick, so quick, i barely blink.

my mother texts. she never does. your grandma died.

i blink. then blink again. i reply, i give condolences, i hear nothing in return.

i never knew her name.

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Rachel Kitch is a half-Thai speculative horror novelist in Washington, DC. She holds a Masters from the University of Pennsylvania and when not writing, works as a brand and web designer. Find her on twitter @rachelkitch or at www.rachelkitch.com.