Today

I watched the caretaker tear Amma’s skin at its seams

before hanging the now vestigial blanket out to dry.

“This blanket once coddled you, kept you safe from

the Danavas, look how it now recoils from my touch.

Skin remembers what its bearer forgets. Scars weave

their distorted patterns and narratives in languages we can

only hope to understand. You once called this blanket

Familiar - That was ten years ago. What else is left to do

here but reacquaint yourself to textures you once described

as Home.”

The caretaker handed the blanket to me for me to wear.

For me to fit my frame into its thick, inflamed

anatomy. For me to articulate the brown of my back

against its jagged arrangement. For me to watch as

“home” slipped down the edge of my leg before

seeping into the Earth until all that was left were

the etchings of unfamiliar faces whose cold jeers

told well of their nature – the Danavas, with their

crude geometries, best suited to fit the grooves of

a convulsing spine. They spoke in tides, a deluge of

noises I couldn’t fathom, except one who whispered

a familiar melody to me.

“I’ll try and visit next year.”

A song I once sang of “home.”