Motiya
“You’ll remember this when I’m dead,”
she said, plucking motiya flowers—
white pearls resting
on emerald leaves—
from her garden,
placing them in a blue ceramic bowl.
The words she imparted
anecdotes, prayers, warnings,
left a sillage like the motiya
circling in my thoughts.
I now think of the motiya often.
In dreams, I visit her fragrant garden;
her voice still perfumed in my mind,
unearthing the wisdom
that once felt like a lecture.
So I keep a bowl of motiya flowers.
Its scent filling my room
like her words—
carved in my memory
more clearly than her face.
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