Every Sunday, I pick up the phone to call home. It has to be Sunday, or Baba will be worried. Seven days have passed; a call is long overdue.
All week long, I have nipped open cardamom pods; to throw in my tea and baking. Homesickness is my guide.
To this home in my heart, this home I seek.
In the vibrato of wedding songs, and softness of the prayer rug, and the coconut oil I rub into my scalp.
Like the umbilical cord, always sewing; twisting. I must never lose hold.
Of this home that sent us away, then calls us back.
Go look for a living. We’re here waiting.
This home that let’s us breathe freely, then chokes us with unforgiving responsibility.
So I have stripped away all my curtains. Now I can peek outside at the rushing night; phone in hand. “Nnawatamani,” I say, and take a sip of my tea.