MID-SUMMER DREAM

Maybe reality is just a fragment of our imagination. Who knows? Isla. The sound of my sister’s voice jolts me from my thoughts. Isha. "I'm coming," I call back, brushing dirt off my dress as I rise from the grass. The late afternoon sun filters through the leaves, casting golden patterns over the garden. Our mother’s garden. I step inside the house, the familiar scent of old books and lavender filling my lungs. Isha stands by the doorway, arms crossed, her dark brows knitted together. "Where were you?" she asks. "In the garden," I reply simply. She scrunches her nose. "Why do you like that place so much?" "Because it belonged to Ma." At the mention of our mother, Isha's expression falters, her voice softer now. "Ma…" The word hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken grief. A beat of silence. Then, as if shaking off a memory, she straightens. "Well, stop whatever you were doing and help me clean up. Pa’s coming home today." I sigh but nod. "I know, I know." Pa—our father, the man who drifts in and out of our lives like the tide. A marine engineer, always at sea, always moving. He'll be home for a while, then gone again. It's how it's always been.