At World's End

When I am old enough to lose my way, this is how I would like to go. Slip away in the heat of the afternoon through the sal bon, past the jheel, taking the dusty red road with me.

Kothay jachhish? Ekhane. Okhane. Jani na. Ashi?

I'll remember to lock the door behind me. Don't worry. I won't need to dress warm.

Tiny gray boat, rough wood under my fingers. No mast, no rudder, just enough space for one. Enough room to lie down comfortably, feet curled up inside the prow, drawing the sky down over you like a frayed white sheet. That's all I'll need. Little waves lap around the vessel, pulling gently. You push off and earth moves away. Coarse, heavy earth with sorrowful gashes across its face. Ravaged grasses nodding goodbye.

A pale ocean, so quiet, unmoved by thunder or storms, my little boat hardly making a furrow on it. Sometimes I sleep, sometimes I don't. Look at clouds, drifting above me, beside me, falling apart at a touch. Little by little, I will learn to forget. Forget how to count, the multiplication tables, the immutable laws which govern This, That, and the Other. Forget many words, forget the sour taste of thought. I will forget names and it will not matter. I will forget faces and find relief in the anonymity. I will discard it thankfully, throw ballast overboard. Tiny islands bobbing in the wake, sinking and not leaving a mark.

Mostly I will sleep. My little boat without a sail will float along, somewhere along the Tropic of Cancer, between the end of the world and the gray havens. The sun will fade away and the water will be cool. There is no evening and no night, but I will sleep. If I'm lucky, I might dream about the sunflowers. I can dream, and maybe somewhere on the ocean there will be fields of gold.