We talk, our breaths spilling in white gusts, and that old, fairytale London, where the wolves were very much real, comes back as vivid as a story whispered in a child’s ear. And something else, something surprising, begins to happen. For the first time in years, perhaps the first time ever, I’m sharing memories with my older brother.
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This skin has listened as I have tried to formulate sentences and protests to how it has been handled, and then has accepted that I have done nothing to save it from being touched.
We go lower into myth and memory, the glimmery edge where the slabs and entablatures slow us down through a pass.
I was convinced my body was dragging my soul to damnation. And so I tried to save myself by throwing myself away.
Our dining room table is the queen of all spaces in our home. It carries our fears and secrets. It offers us a place to eat our meals, sit, rest, and reflect.
The dance I wanted to learn? Bhangra. One person beats a large double-headed drum, the dhol, while folks in colorful clothing move on the balls of their feet, twist their wrists, and stretch out their arms. It’s an enchanting traditional dance; but somewhere in its migration from India to other countries, the dance snorted some cocaine and became frantic and hyper, choreographed to a conglomeration of Punjabi music and hip-hop. A way to get the general public more interested, I guess. Modern Bhangra was probably not what the farmers had in mind when they celebrated in villages long ago, but its origin made it my priority to master.
I once wrote that my parents left me no legacy. I wanted to write about the negative space that adoption carves.
