Punjab

There are fleeting moments

when I can feel her

calling to me.

I can close my eyes

and smell jasmine,

and the vapors of hot chai

with cloves

and just a splash of milk.

I can hear the man

calling from his fruit cart

in the morning

as I open my eyes

to the boiling sun

pouring light through the silk curtains

warming my caramel skin.

I also remember walking on the dirty streets

coated with garbage like confetti,

dogs with fleas,

and the little girl,

who tugged at my expensive jeans

as I turned around in anger,

startled

to see her holding a baby,

worried more that she had reached

inside my pockets

than about what she had to say;

ik pesa?

But instead, I chose to erase these memories

and cover them up with 

the beautiful things

like the smell of sandalwood paste

and the juicy mangos we’d pick from trees,

like drinking ice cold Coke from those glass bottles

and the way my anklets and bangles jingled as I stepped,

like the bright beautiful fabrics that lined each shop

and the bells chiming in the temple,

I chose to remember the smell of jasmine and hot chai,

and the man calling from his fruit cart as I woke up to the boiling sun.

I would only be there for a few fleeting moments,

so I would soak in all these lovely things

before I would find my way home,

smiling when asked about my vacation.

Home was never where I found her,

and when questioned by friends and strangers

I would always decline any connection;

I was an American.

But lately, I’ve been feeling her calling to me,

a mother to her child,

and I cannot deny her existence

because after all,

she is running through my veins;

she is in my brown skin, and my long braid,

and the words that roll off my tongue;

she has raised my parents, and their parents,

and she is the dust of my ancestors.

Though she is broken,

and those memories I used to erase

will overcome the beautiful things,

I pray we meet again soon.