Aashi Patel, poetry, 2023
I grew up holding hands of those who saw
Childhood activities evolve into mindless traditions,
Tears and sweat that leak out onto my face
And saliva that I gulp down to eat away
Words and emotions that have limited
Windows of expression.
Sleepovers at nani’s place reduced massively
From twice a month to twice a year.
My sister, my cousins, nani and nana,
We were all tied together by strings of Love
And ropes of Time, nani-nana growing older
And us growing up.
Skipping down the monsoon-kissed stairs
We stood by the shop, as if from a movie scene.
The owner wore a smile on his eyes,
Wrinkled with time and joy, for he was as old as the days
Our tradition had seen.
It has been years and the place has stayed the same
As he stands with the bags of our favorite chips.
It’s a shame that we still don’t know his name
As he sits there, sipping his chai, exclaiming endearingly
How tall we’ve grown.
What is closeness in blood and in choice?
Intersections like this burn my egocentric eye
With tears that dissolve blood and water alike.
I know in that moment of brief interaction, we created
Our own circle of care.