I miss,
the familiar warmth of the winter sun,
that nip in the air around this time of the year.
feigned lethargy at impending chores,
marigold blossoms everywhere,
tasting my mother's first selroti
to make sure the elements are just right.
“more sugar”,I let her know
“everything else is just perfect”,it always is.
I ask to be taught. “No!”,she says
always the same answer.
I miss,
the diyas, the aarti, the sweets, the laughter,
the visits, the “bhaileni” and the “deusurey”,
my mother, my sister, my family,
my father the most,
the different days of “tihar”
each more ridiculous than the next
idiosyncrasies, card-games, dancing,
drunken brawls, tiffs and spats,loud noises.the half-day fast for “bhai tika”,
the immediate satiating of appetites afterward.
Generally,I miss home.
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