my mother is decreasing she tiptoes barefoot about the house to not make a murmur of her existence my mother is contracting she nibbles at our leftovers until the morsels choke the base of her throat my mother is dwindling she has a shadow that attempts to detach itself and a reflection that strives to crack open the mirror my mother is shrivelling she is a ghost wearing cheap moisturizer laden skin over appendages that rattle when she moves and heavy studded jewelry that wei

“this was the legacy of the great Indian kitchen, here, only stomachs were filled in the attempt to fill hearts“ I could smell the spices floating through the verandah from the kitchen And hear the sizzle of meat being thrown into hot oil. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Is that why most woman toil days and nights in the kitchen , Trying to make all sorts of concoctions hoping to crawl into their husbands’ hearts? Is it worth it even if they have fil