The paper is so yellow that it looks sick and the head of the aurochs drawn in dark ink looks like a cow. The stamp is no bigger than a fingernail. I wonder at the price we pay, while my tongue feels the empty space between my teeth. That was for touching it.
I am paying him a tribute of the ancient Hindus – immolating his most precious belonging. It’s not me, his widow. I hold the stamp until the flames caress my fingertips. I drop it, waiting for the fire to die, so I can rise again from the cinders.
Bio: Sophie van Llewyn is an Assistant Editor with Bartleby Snopes and a Pushcart prize nominee. Her prose has been published by The Molotov Cocktail, Flash Frontier, Hermeneutic Chaos Journal, and Chicago Literati, among others.