I remember how I couldn’t hustle
Gujarati harmonies
from their natural place,
heard from her lips,
deep in the dark —
I didn’t understand.
I remember how her jet-black
georgette scarves would rustle
with solace, lapping over
her veiled voice —
the way her syllables sailed
like cadenced embraces
in her home where love bloomed,
her home, old and sold,
where the past was packed away
from every room.