The monsoon's opening, wet shirts make us naked and unseen. You say- the nakedness equals invisibility.

My mother ignores us. We, the naked invisibles. We, the imperfects. She sees no imperfections. At most she may tell you she has no one.

The monsoon's zoo, a father runs with a son, not his. Invisible, we stride into the tiger's pen to its mild irritation. We slip into her, wear her skin. All we have are some wet shirts. This is better than them.

They throw some peanuts at us. We feel tired. Cannot remind them they have some wrong perceptions.

I told my uncle at least he still conjures some will for visiting this far, perhaps at his age I would remain in bed watching the future substitution of television for a blood and plastic game. The beetles would still move the earth. I never believed the bees and birds would disappear, or the sea turtles would leave their skeletons scattered on sand.

At least he still traversed the path towards the sunset. At west stood our house. He complained less about his pains and more about the lessening zeal. Our old dog lay at our feet remembering hard about the waiting bone's spirit somewhere in our garden. Doubtless a small unnamed bush conquered the plot. A lean bird nibbled the seeds. This event might change our future.

His father gave him a made-in-China kite for the festival. It would fly once we rein our expectations. The process involved several false flights.

Later another friend showed him what his father brought for him from a land we all knew by name but could not point in a map. Perhaps our maps were small.

His friend hopped down the trail between two barbwire lines leaving him sunk in the cold playground. I told him his father would give him more the following year.

No. His father, dying, could not. He said. His lips blued.

A thread from his shirt's hem trembles against the dark wind.