Our grandmother we remember vividly in the moon and sitting on a sagging cot woven with old stories and waving trees ,circulating the moon wind and princes.Coconuts join in stories of green lands lost on daughters’ weddings, gold shining less,vegetables brought and cut, from groves.

Men come in rain, bearing wedding stuffs between slippery field boundaries of rice,paddies with water snakes swimming early ,women ankle deep in mud, their shoulders on level with the mountains of the horizon.

Grandmothers cry from no salt in the eye.They cry softly from waters in the head of memories of husbands lost in opium, of sons and grand-nieces lost to a moon.

They laugh toothless laughter in ripples over vegan jokes made specially for kids,not on fart jokes in high demand by them. As they make hot evening snacks for kids,they rub their eye-whites, of blue smoke.


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