Meandering through memory lane

The sun was coming in pretty strong through the window,

it was already noon.

My very first memory of you,

the one that’s vivid and bright – not a borrowed memory from stories,

was standing in the little kitchen of our Bengaluru house.

I was half asleep, clutching tightly onto your nightie

while you cooked and hummed.

The sun was coming pretty strong through the window,

and your face was all lit up.

I followed you around everywhere,

and sought you out in every corner.

I grew up while watching you grow up too,

in that little house with the white balcony railings,

and the great big green tress,

and the glasses of milk on the terrace

and the neighbourhood kids that played for hours and hours.

How you must have felt, what you must have done when my little feet were tired and flopped down to rest,

which side of the coin do your memories land on?

Reminiscing is a long-winded path,

meandering through changing memories escaping out of a broken sand timer.

And yet, my first memory of you in our sun lit kitchen remains constant

a rock, in shifting sands.

PS: I love you Amma, thank you for being the best.