As I rest my head

Against the French window

Looking out on my yard

I wonder.

As families pushing strollers

Or runners in bright green

Tread on the bike path,

I think of

Where she is, my grandmother.

It is two in the afternoon.

She is likely asleep, in a

Room with no air-conditioning.

I remember the man

Who caught my cart      

Before my luggage fell into the street

And proceeded to scold me.

I see the samosas

Dropped into the oil

And then parcels placed in my hand

For twelve rupees.

Outside our home,

The dog, covered in fleas

Scavenging rubbish

To fill its belly.

A veranda with brick floors

Whose corners bear a garden.

From which my grandmother

Plucks pomegranates and mangoes.

But then my mother calls

And I sigh and trudge upstairs,

Walk into my room,

And lie on the white comforter.