Dadima

Morning calls her before she’s ready.

The hall light left on in anticipation

Reminds her that yesterday happened

And tomorrow is an arrogant assumption.

But today is holy--

And she begins today

Just like all the other todays

With duas over the hot stove.

Bismillah ir rahman ir rahim.

She prefers the burnt wooden spoon

That’s reliably stirred her chai

For over fifteen years

To anything pristine and unwet.

The boiling milk forms a thin skin on top

That her wooden spoon disrupts.

But the skin forms again relentlessly,

Blanketing the cup of chai.

It’s good for you. You can drink it.

Her body is expert in homeostasis.

Todays pass by in cups of chai

For herself, her son, her grandchildren

When they accept, and even when they don’t--

Tonight is the most uneasy part of today.

Weary and starched, she rouses herself

Because the little one knocked at her door

To ask if she could please make her fried banana.

Of course. Anything for my baby.

She reprises this morning

And whispers her duas to thank God

That she can still stand at the stove

And fill the house with aromas of sugar and burnt edges.

Pops of oil strike like darts invisibly

The skin of her wrist singed by years of it.

She nudges the browning banana--it’ll stick if she doesn’t--

as the little one watches quietly, pinching her chin.

Anything for my baby.

She turns the heat down

So it cooks long and slow

And warms from the inside out

So she can sleep easy

Knowing her baby is full.