my grandma,
with appleblossoms hands,
at the door of death,
waiting to meet hands with her Creator,
shaking,
She goes “what should I do, where should I go”,
and I sit and watch,
reading arabic script to calm her breath,
My grandma
with honey and milk covered lips,
ajwain and haldi at hand,
she sits, and listens to me moan about men,
and how this culture has wronged women, at why we should be free,
and she sits and agrees,
my grandma,
with mango lips,
breathing into me life,
.
she.
is all that my mother was not.
my ama.