2.17.08
dear india,
i don’t thrive on your smells drifting in the air.
i don’t crave your tingling spices for my tongue.
sometimes my eyes hurt from seeing your contentment with poverty.
but oh how i love your sounds.
since my very first morning,
i knew that it was different.
it is the most beautiful sound i have ever heard.
your sounds wake me each morning and lull me to sleep at night.
there are always children
running
laughing
shouting
crying.
i hear the gentle sweep of women’s brooms.
they vainly sweep the dirt away
only to have it settle right back in.
if i listen closely,
sometimes i think i can even hear the laundry blowing in the dirt filled breeze.
i hear the men arguing.
i hear the car horns blaring.
there is the hammering of brick too.
forever building
but never improving.
there are cows mooing
dogs barking
constant airplanes taking flight
and always birds chirping.
i hear the tiny bells of bikes and rickshaws.
i hear the cotton candy man and his creepy sales chant.
or maybe he is actually selling sponges? who can be sure…
late nights bring random fireworks.
early mornings bring the sound of vomiting.
in my home there is
chatter
laughter
coughing
clanging of pots and pans
the grumbling of our stomachs
and love.
love has a sound every time we say yes
when we feel like saying no.
every time we pray for each other
and sing to our father
and laugh about boys
or poop
or rickshaw adventures
love sounds like the swallowing of pride
avoiding anger by forgiveness
when strangers live together in harmony because they love [the father].
and ice cream from the mother of all dairies.
