by G.B. Dinesh

They were talking about death at Nana’s eightieth birthday party. I sat on her lap. “She won’t die, she is a witch,” one of her friends said, cackling.

I looked up; Nana gave me a tired smile. She was already dying, but the spark in her eyes made me think of a blaze that had been burning for centuries.

Soon I dressed like her. I talked like her, ate like her.

Then she died.

Now all I can do is watch. As if looking up from a bottomless well, and choking with tears, I watch the witch living my life.

G.B. Dinesh

G.B. Dinesh is a young writer and software engineer from Chennai, India.