home.

my grandma’s curry holds itself on my tongue. it burns. aches. it twists itself down the pathways littered with

toothbrush-sores and cracked teeth, slipping through the crevices molded by its twin flames. the smell of chili

clutches the aging walls of a beehive working since birth and until death, a coffin of sorts where my long-gone

ancestors will soon lay. i cough, an insult to the old woman sitting across the table, and i almost want her to

pinch my rosy cheeks and accuse my skin of whitening as we speak, to the colors of the lipstick bottles

perched on the vanity in a childhood bedroom down the hall. a? no, hers. but she hasn’t haunted that room in

years.

the samosas are warming in a microwave that’s seen countless explosions, meat dripping from its curves like

the remains of a ravenous beasts’s dinner after midnight has slipped past. they were chilled to the bone when

we handed off the packages, and now they rise to warmth, steam buckling off hills with hooves for feet. as

children with spice baked into sugary hands from years of sprinkling paprika on kebabs and sliding chicken

off of sticks, our fingers are bent with age our minds do not possess. for today, we run until the clock strikes

seven, and then we curl our fists against a steel bowl and scoop hills into our stomachs until they burn.

the aged digits twist around each other and press until semi-circles dig into palms, tracing leftover bits of beef

on the small of each other's hands. the yellowing sphere holds flecks of fire. the grinning children hold bits of

flames. they’ll crinkle away to ash eventually, but for now, the matches are well lit. words pass from mouth to

mouth in a hushed but communal whisper, a command. the yellow beats. a small quiver. amen. the rise and fall

of the syllables is different. warm. rising. her voice is slightly raised, slightly louder, rustic and wobbly. a path

crossed thousands of times until feet bend and twist. ankles raw. her skin stretches into a slow smile and the

golden sphere freezes.

light burns through the edges of my vision. ankles crack against aging wood, against semi-circles dug into

half-open palms. a coffin of other sorts, smooth wood splitting paper cuts into open wounds. the samosas

vanish first, scooped by little hands unbroken and fluorescent. the kabobs are chewed in violent heat, teeth

pointed by elementary school sharpeners. the plates vanish. the cutlery clatters against the rim of the sink. i

start to wonder who else will be haunting this house. i start preparing the flowers. i start packing away the

spice jars and cleaning the residue from between my fingertips. the microwave is pulled apart like an

abandoned carcass lying ruined on the side of a road, skeletal figure peeking through the raw skin. my

grandma’s curry dissolves itself on my tongue. the aftertaste is sharp. i wash it out until it burns.