Her mind too escaped to the green fields. 

When the sun tingled her delicate skin,

And her Ma’s clay-burned hands 

Were the only things that could heal.

She remembered the cold winds of Spring–

Sharp and essential. 

Like her Ma’s stern face,

Or her Baba’s hands of metal.

She dreamed of magic carpets and glossy mangoes,

No more slippery stairs or crowded windows.

But as she bundled her whole life in bandages,

And felt the wet dirt

Beneath her feet,

Maybe the soiled boxes weren’t the

Only damaged packages.

The carpets were dusty and the mangoes were bruised.

Ma’s clay-burned hands were hollow,

Her stern face now confused. 

Baba’s faith could not be deterred, 

Nor his hands of metal, still being abused.

There is still a torch behind her home,

Glowing every night. 

So as she welcomes a foreign tongue 

And brand new light,

There is never a doubt where she belongs–

Between the rain, wind, and open life.