Hart Island. A million souls buried in the ground. There are no names on tombstones. No plaques. Just bones on top of bones.

This is where New York buries its poor, unknown, and forgotten. Bodies rotting. Cold days in winter. There is no spring.

Basima had never heard of Hart Island. She did not know of the potter’s field. And she did not know Salman’s whereabouts. Yes, she thought of him as dead, yet there is always hope.

It had been a month. No word from her husband. No letters. Nor phone calls. Just quiet. A hovering silence.

No one identified the body of Ben. A note on him saying, please call Jamie and a number was all there was to go on. Jamie lifted a glass to her former husband and said, Now you are home. She then let go . Jamie did not cry or curse when being told. She felt relieved.

And now the two men lay in rest at Hart Island. Their lives finished. Love left behind.

Basima spent her days driving around Hunts Point, where the Bodega front glass door remained unlocked. Looters had taken everything. Shelves were empty. Cash register opened. Pennies on the floor.

She was scared to open that door. Frightened of what she might find; a husband with a bullet hole in his head. A knife twisted in his stomach. An addict, done with his days. She just drove past, telling herself, I’ll face it tomorrow.

Two bodies on Hart Island. Lying side by side. One broken soul, the other an infidel. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell them apart.