The Sandcastles I Never Built

How do I grieve for the sandcastles I’ve never built,
sticky sand wedged in between pretend sandals,
as I carry a plastic shovel over my child-sized shoulders,
digging myself out of my parents’ broken marriage--

a match made in heaven, if God was a melting newspaper ad,
with the words looking more like an inkblot than fate.

“Tall, dark, and handsome.”
“Must live in the United States.”

That’s it.
The only criteria for this Rishta were two willing souls.

The celebration was over when the party started:
no balloons, no cake, no confetti, no streamers.

Just a heavy red dress, heavy gold bangles, heavy headpiece.
The heaviest thing my mother would carry wasn’t even me,
and I was a chubby child.

It would be a marriage so lost at sea
that you could turn her tears into salt,
but my father liked salt,
and it didn’t matter where it came from.

So here I am, crying her tears,
crying the tears of every woman before me.
​
I grieve for the sandcastles I’ve never built,
but perhaps I was made to carve rivers instead.