Sunrise

During the ceasefire, Thaththi took us 

through the east and north of the island to see it 

as one country still. I think he feared it’d be severed, 

cut up like scrap paper, perhaps even need a visa

to visit and face hostility for having a lazy tongue. 

I remember, as a seven- or eight-year-old, 

waking up before the sun had even opened its eyes

or thought of rising that day—

we walked out of the front door of our beach villa,

always dusted with sand, to the open darkness,

facing the gentle waters of Passikudah. 

Soon orange soaked into the soft blue above 

like acrylic bleeding on a wet canvas.

Decades have passed since. I am on a flight to Adelaide,

to reunite with them, where Aiya lives—

my secret stored away in an English town. 

I watch an explosive red spread across the land

from above, like a volcano erupting—not in anger 

but with a familiar, firm hand, like Ammi’s. 

The white clouds between that bright 

flame and me soften the beams and 

outline the beauty of this new land—

as you do with each of my uncertain steps

and the fear lodged in my throat.