I push my weightagainst the sturdy swing-doorof Nani’s house.My eyes catch white and grey:
Nana’s pebble gardenwhere we would discoverfat pieces of rock. Khadiya.
We would write our namesand make animal faceson small slates.My baby brother and I.
Papa isn’t here.Mom is cutting fruit.Inside, on her favorite chair,Nani is chopping kaddu.She hobbles back and forth from the kitchen.Nana’s radio plays sitar.
My brother and I are free.We take Khadiya and draw our future.We wipe the details we do not like.
It is dark when we hop back inside,pick our places at the dinner table.I, an astronaut,digging into mango chutney.He, a mountain,birthing pahadi raita.
Papa isn’t here
and we are free to dreamin Nani’s house.
***
Image: The Voyage of Life: Childhood, 1842, Thomas Cole, American