My adopted sister Ethel sat opposite me at the dinner table, waiting for the food to arrive in the multicolored bowls Mom had gotten long ago, to cheer Ethel up and encourage her to eat. Ethel was ... [+]
The sun shines differently in India, warmth burning around me like I'm a candle wick, a baby swaddled
in a quilt blanket, and a lotus flower
whose roots are enveloped by water soil.
I feel peace like I'm woven between the threads of silk sarees, pushed by Ganga's tide, and carved into the thousand pillars of stone temples.
I hold my Ammamma's hand, full of wrinkles and softer than silk, her cool breath against my forehead, eyes bright and unseeing, and I know I'm hers.
The red Indian fire lives in both of us.
in a quilt blanket, and a lotus flower
whose roots are enveloped by water soil.
I feel peace like I'm woven between the threads of silk sarees, pushed by Ganga's tide, and carved into the thousand pillars of stone temples.
I hold my Ammamma's hand, full of wrinkles and softer than silk, her cool breath against my forehead, eyes bright and unseeing, and I know I'm hers.
The red Indian fire lives in both of us.