TWELVE
There is something so ironic about death, I thought to myself as I ran my fingers over the picture frame on my nightstand. It makes your appreciate what you lost even more. The trouble is you can’t take death away and restore life.
The photo in the frame was taken my first week in New York as a married woman. I was laughing alongside Faizan, awkwardly clenched in his embrace, still not used to the idea of being affectionate in public. He was smiling—an expression frozen in time, his body bathed in sun, almost fading away. Now a dimension away. Somewhere he existed although my mortal fingers couldn’t reach him and my words couldn’t recall him. I winced as my finger touched the lower left corner of the frame, where the glass had chipped. I looked on in a foolish fixation as a drop o
