Almost Yesterday

Sometimes it feels like a dream. 

I can barely picture those palm trees in my memory, 

can barely smell the masala’s scent wafting through the twilight. 

The tinkling bells seem so far away. 

The packed streets; 

and peaceful village pathways-- 

they hide themselves from the view

of my mind'e eye. 

Was it even real? 

Because now, 

in the comforts of luxury; 

in the familiar warmth of home’s embrace,

I almost forget. 

In church we sing songs 

that I once knew in that language. 

We read the from the Bible...

verses that I read for the first time 

in that language. 

And now, 

Both have different meanings. 

Because now, 

sometimes, 

it feels like both have become lost

in translation.

Was it even real?

Maybe it was all a dream. 

Maybe I’m only imagining

the deepest brown eyes 

and the ears that stick out. 

My little friend, Imon. 

Maybe I only dreamt

of the eye that trailed off

and the little red dress with white polka-dots. 

My little playmate, Tuli. 

Could I be imagining 

the calloused, brown hands, 

the wiry black hair woven with strands of silver,

the fish bones discarded on the plate? 

My kaki-ma. 

But, 

sometimes, 

Sometimes it feels so close–

was it yesterday?

when sweat poured down my back 

as I played football in the sand, 

hour after hour 

the heat, a warm hug from Asia herself.  

Sometimes, it feels so near 

that it will be there, waiting for me, 

when I open the back door. 

Is that the tinkling of puja bells? 

Is that the Azan? 

Is that the sound of spices

sizzling in the pan? 

—the calloused hands

 —the fish bones discarded on the plate.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, 

I can almost feel the metal of the spiral staircase: 

winding,

smooth,

cold under my fingertips as I head downstairs for breakfast

…

almost yesterday.