With her flowing current, I hoped the Ganges would somehow redeem and purify me. I hunched over, my curved back shielding the ceremony from the surrounding cackles and laughter of my tour group. Too much had been splayed open over the past eight months; I needed to sew it back up amidst the frivolity. Possessions spread over two apartments, bank accounts scrutinized by a judge, a mother-in-law who wrote to me on my anniversary,
“If you want to travel, take a vacation. Don’t end your marriage.”
With some semblance of privacy, I faced the river, the burning cup in my lap, ring and vows in hand. I settled into where I was, resigning myself to the lack of seclusion. I had done something similar once on a bright March day in Wisconsin.
By Kristin Zibell (to be continued)
