second year srija sengupta

To my mother–

I wake up to your text.

Sunlight spills over my head, almost drowning out the words on my phone screen; and yet, even when I, bleary-eyed and snagged by sleep, cannot read them, I know they are there.

I text you back. Some days, I forget, and I only remember when you send me another text a couple hours later– you always forgive me, but not without some really deserved teasing.

You texted me another recipe the other day– it’s an egg stew that you always make. I add too much black cumin, and the stew is darker than when you make it. The flavor doesn’t change- much, that is, but the dissonance makes it taste different. You tell me I’ll get it right the next time– I don’t tell you that it doesn’t matter how much I get it right, that it won’t be yours.

You text me a picture– your garden’s grown so much. I remember the days when you would bend over sproutlings smaller than I ever was,now your green children tower above you in forests royal. You tell me to remind you that you need to bring a flower to my place when you see me next. I delete my morning alarms just to put your reminder in.

To my father–

I call you in the middle of the day.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. I text you first. I don’t want to disturb you. When you reply, and you always reply, I call.

We talk– as people on phones so often do. I tell you about the book I have to buy for class, and you ask me if I need more oranges. I wonder if you are curling your hands, fingers twitching with the memory of peeling oranges for me when I was younger. I tell you I have enough oranges, and I know you slot the information in your brain like a book on a shelf.

You tell me to go for a walk– ‘It’s sunny there, isn’t it?’ I tell you I already have, but that’s a bit of a lie– now that you mentioned it, it does seem like a good day for a walk. I’ll have to take your advice.

To my parents–

I have been unraveling since I stepped away from you. My seams have come undone and gone away thousands of moments back. I know it is day because there is sunlight on my face, and I know it is night because I strain to see the wall opposite my bed. The carpet of my room was beaten down when I moved in, and so it will not carry the miles I have paced over it, trying to run away from the feeling of hurtling through the sky without even a cloud to grab.

But there you are– in eggs and gardens, in oranges and walks. My heartbeat has long since fled, and in its place are your words, your steady love. You tether my marrow to my bone, and I do not go hollow. You put your hands on my back, and I do not go tilted. You wrap me in a lullaby, and I do not shake apart.

Years from now, I’ll have forgotten your words, time will blur the edges, and my bad eyesight will do the rest. But your love, with all its grounding– that I won’t forget.

To My Parents