The Mark That Said Still Me

Priya was six and a little bit taller than the lowest light switch. On the kitchen doorframe, pencil marks showed how she had grown. Mum had drawn the last one before leaving to work overseas. Now Dad made breakfast, checked her schoolbag, and sat beside her bed each night. Mum's blue cup stayed on its usual shelf.

Mum would be away for four months. On the calendar, Dad had circled the Saturday she would come home, in the first week of December. There were still many squares between today and that circle. They spoke on Sundays, when it was afternoon for Priya and bedtime for Mum. Sometimes Priya missed her most on an ordinary Tuesday.

One morning, Dad noticed that Priya's pyjama trousers stopped above her ankles. “Shall we see how much you've grown?” he asked, reaching for the pencil. Priya stepped away from the doorframe. She pressed her heels down inside her slippers. “No measuring.” Dad put the pencil on the counter. “All right,” he said. “Your toast is ready. I'll sit with you.”