Within the sooty pages of a half-read memoir, I find a picture
of Papa and me. Taken after we tumbled out of the death-
defying rollercoaster ride. Hung lopsided, his smile
unsure if he lost something when we were suspended
in glass capsules: his tooth filling, a pill, his hat or a little
of his head. I show him the picture, he laughs and brags
From when I had hair in a tenor with which a man remembers
the day he started trusting his wife. He asks me why
I don’t smile with both dimples, outside of photos
I say It was just a phase when I want to say I just don’t
get amused as easily. As if in trade, he texts me a picture
of water chestnuts from a grocery aisle, captioned
Do you still love these? And I cry because I’m certain that
after he’s gone, this question will follow me around
the way memory chases everything that slips away
between the gap in its teeth. It has taken me nine years
and ten months to let him into my silences—grief tucked within folds
of monosyllables: yes, no, hmmm.
I am leaning on him in the picture, shaking
a green soda can. A click, and we were both soaked
in an overflow of sugar and laughter. Now he sleeps alone on her side
of the bed. I tiptoe around the drapes, careful not to make
the curtain rings chime. He calls me Pooja, meaning prayer—
my late mother’s name—as he opens his eyes. I let the sun in
blind by blind. Wait until we adjust to the sudden light
—Preeti Vangani
Preeti Vangani is the author of Mother Tongue Apologize, a book of poems.
