As I rest my head Against the French window Looking out on my yard I wonder. As families pushing strollers Or runners in bright green Tread on the bike path, I think of Where she is, my grandmother. It is two in the afternoon. She is likely asleep, in a Room with no air-conditioning. I remember the man Who caught my cart Before my luggage fell into the street And proceeded to scold me. I see the samosas Dropped into the oil And then parcels placed in my hand For twelve rupees. Outside our home, The dog, covered in fleas Scavenging rubbish To fill its belly. A veranda with brick floors Whose corners bear a garden. From which my grandmother Plucks pomegranates and mangoes. But then my mother calls And I sigh and trudge upstairs, Walk into my room, And lie on the white comforter.
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