A Ritual of Remembrance
‘Once inked on the face, a tattoo becomes a lifelong conversation.’
My little sister calls out—
‘I’m coming to say good night’
Afraid she might fall,
I reach for the light,
miss the switch,
hit the bed’s sharp edge
Blood on the floor,
hospital glare,
stitches cutting into skin,
my screams,
a scar carved into the face
Years grow into decades
At a salon chair,
a stylist leans close,
the same question each time:
‘What happened, miss?’
‘A childhood accident,’ I say,
curt, turning away
And what could I tell her?
A story I cannot unfold—
our worlds apart,
the bond slipping through time
Each morning,
I redraw the missing brow,
the black pencil gliding, the ink never dry—
each stroke, a shadow that lingers
I hear your voice calling Akko
Sunday walks to Dhamma school
Dan kele adventures, lips stained purple
Seated on Ehela branches, swinging in monsoon winds
Origami afternoons at Keiko Auntie’s
Story times with Enid Blyton
Card games, star gazing, petty quarrels,
“Robin Hood” on TV
You—my baby-doll Nanga
Me—your proud Loku Akka
A scar that never heals,
Do you think of me?
Pubudinie Wickramasekara