For the damn wedding to be finally
over. So we could eat. Patting my
stomach, I was almost crying. You,
a year older. An inch taller.
Forbidden laddoos shine like neon
lights. The bells of your anklets give
you away. A tight slap on your cheeks.
(Why do they call it tight, the slap?)
The nameless aunt grabs the
laddoo from your right hand. You
come back to me, wet and red faced.
These nameless aunts, unaware of
how small our palms are, never
check both. So in your left hand,
the half-crumbling sweet is broken
in two. We stuff our mouths in one
go, ruining the very holy wedding.