Curated  Stories

At every corner of the house a story stepped out of its wrapping. When the injured raven visited, it blessed us with miracles for the care it got and Uncle became cancer free. The window that crashed on its own was  mourning the passing of grandpa. It was a sign, but his passing  spirit ensured our well being, so no one was hurt. The pillars that supported the house stood tall even when Aunt fell off the terrace and embraced her seizures and trauma, both physical and mental. Schizophrenia’s better than premature death when you’re just twenty. Its many doors and windows opened onto the veranda. These brought  fresh scents from all over and the whole house was fragrant with hope and healing even for Aunt.

So when the house was euthanized, as they do to old sick dogs, a lot in us died with our stories tattooed on our souls. Now we carry the ink wherever we go because we have the house no more.

Few summers back one morning as I was getting to work, I heard  a weak human whimper coming from inside the dumpster, So I had to peep. And sure a bundle of miracle greeted me. I didn’t have to know his religion, ethnicity, or color to hug him to my breast and cradle him cooing to calm him. The motherless, rootless baby had no story of his own, except one of rejection and hunger.  So I gave him one. He is part of the stories we have been writing together for when his children come. Our shared stories are curated with love in a home full of truth for what is truth but tender love? We keep making stories and homes as we float along.