I Carry Your Heart, I Carry It In My Heart Dipti Anand
I carry a basket of weaves weaved with new threads year after year after year – little threads that interlock and embrace and glisten, in the panoramic view of the sun and you, and you, and her, and us, laughing. I carry the scent of my father’s lingering perfume, persistent, like sea‐salt, clinging to every last skin cell as I nap in his blanket after he has returned to the day, and I, to the happy confidence that he is always here. I carry the softness of my mother’s warm hands, and her fingers, long and far‐reaching, crossing all time, dimension, age, ego, but deepest yet, like sunlight trapped in a jar, into my own restless soul.
I carry the hushed sound of my father’s sweet smiles, anything but silent as the twinkling in his eyes erupts like fireworks and the muffled sounds of his humming to a tune he will teach me, if I do not know. I carry the whispers from my mother’s serene lips that unleashed me onto a world of thought, of expression, of action, where I swim, and breathe in large gulps of air – a bubbling reminder to float. I carry my parent’s hearts in mine, under the light pressure of their energies tugging at chords of my soul, agreeing to disagree, disagreeing only later to agree, to be, to grow, to become a sparkle like the shining brightness that their souls emit and if I were, I am, I will be – I can only hear my head think thanks, thanks and thanks.
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