My grandma’s hands are gnarled maps. Routes rivers stars terrains oceans and galaxies rest in her palm. Ridges and grooves have taken different roads, read different stories than mine. The gold studs at her ears have dimmed with age glass bangles jingle as she sways the latest baby of the house in her arms scrambling up trying to reach her potli filled with Aladdin’s treasures. Fevered brows were cooled by her soothing hands, she was the voice of practicality in a time of confusion and chaos, guiding me through failures, nudging me ahead of successes. Her feet have never felt the comfort of soft leather, her tongue never the joy of rich sauces. and yet I envy her, of her simplicity.
About the Poet:
Chaitali Gawade’s writerly musings are fuelled by tea and coffee. Her work has been published by Unbroken Journal, Duckbill Anthology and Vagabondage Press, among others. She blogs at chaitaligawade.com
Photo by Polski.
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