God’s stitches

The lady ghost lay on the stone by the river. Like stones and universe, ghosts didn’t have gender but this one called herself lady ghost as she didn’t remember her name in the previous birth. She was a man who was born in a wrong body, that much she knew. What was identity anyway? Whatever be the race, gender, religion or region, you died, nonetheless. On the plus side, she could do any yoga pose without the bones on the way.

As if a ghost that had an eternity pooling before, she got up from the stone deadslow and looked around. Rehearsing for the night, the dusk was throwing jokes around. It was still hot. The barren land near Yarra river sighed like her as the dust kicked the butt of her spindly shadow. Dust was fertile. It gave rise to many civilizations, even. Was it the same in Palestine? The silence wasn’t the same. There were many more new ghosts too. Some were reborn as Jewish because, why not?

She sighed again.