Wednesday, March 4, 2015

90 years ago

I carry you with me -
as I leave my silver balis
in my right ear,
and picture you with your gold
studs etched in your lobes.

I carry you with me -
each time I practice listening,
rather than answering,
during a math discussion with my students,
and imagine you leading the 
teams of mathematicians 
in the schools you taught in.

I carry you with me -
when I bite into store-bought
aam  ka  achaar
that doesn't even come close
to each kacha  mango you would cut
and investigate with the kind of love only you had.

I carry you with me -
in the smells of desi  ghee  mixed 
with roasted besan,
and the olive oil in your hair,
which on some days
your skin would soak in all those smells,
and I would take it all in.
I would look at your teal veins 
and wonder about all the life they have seen
and all the places they have been
and the day you came into this world.

You came into this world
on a day
that clearly prepared us 
for the day you would leave us
with directions to move on
on this March Fourth
I carry you with me
as I march forth 
to all places I go -
I love you, Daddo.

My Daddo casting her vote at 87.



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