My son’s voice in the empty
backseat. Dried ice cream on T-shirts.
My mother’s gray-black hair
in the dal.
My love’s pillow—creased, still
warm. My son’s backpack, stuffed
with weathered books. My sister’s
dried bouquet, petals intact.
with arrowhead, and the boy
who gave it to me: how nervously
I brushed him off, how callous
it seems now.
Photos of my sister
in pigtails, arriving from overseas,
my mother’s sari whipping
in the breeze. My father’s
maroon vest, pilled
and worn. The crashing shelves
of my sister’s anger.
of tea with chipped porcelain lips.
Frilled paper turkeys hung
on hospital walls—
the snowflakes, the hearts,
the clovers to follow. The pizza shop’s
neon at night. My father’s shoes
by the doorway
My baby, born in a blizzard.about the author