Tribute to Ammamma's Home

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.