Recognize | Arathi Devandran

Holding my mother’s hand, I was five, then.

Tiny brown fingers clasped in a gnarled hand, my mother,
she was born with a deformity but
“it has never stopped me, you understand”

Holding my mother’s hand, I was five, then.

Standing in front of a boy, his tiny white fingers clasped in a smooth, unwrinkled hand,
his mother’s. Continue reading “Recognize | Arathi Devandran”