Heavy,
the ground with rain,
and I, with anxious grief.
October is still young.
Its weight has only begun
to settle in my bones.
In my cabinet lies
the recipe for cinnamon rolls,
too familiar to you.
When the yeast blooms,
give the dough space to rise-
an hour and a half.
In these afternoon hours,
the black sky hangs low,
and my heart
hangs heavy too.
When the dough has risen,
sticky and wet,
knead it out—
flat and thin, spread the
bittersweet cinnamon paste,
and roll it into a spiral.
A convoluted lump
sits before me,
dense and leaden.
Like grief,
it refuses to lift.
Prod it,
and it will cling.
Slice it, clean.
A draft slips in,
thick and unyielding.
The tick of my oven
too near.
The church bells
of October 1st
wake up my kitchen.
Grief curls beside me,
like a black cat—
quiet,
familiar.
The cinnamon rolls
are warm,
and soft, as I sometimes am,
Today,
I am not.
Snehal Bhadani is a twenty-year-old undergraduate student from Singapore. She writes to form connections between herself and the ever-changing society, and hopes that someone can find solace in her work. Her work has previously been featured in school magazines and the Write the World newsletter.