I see a hand holding a hand
from a distance.
A mother and daughter, probably.
I don’t know their names, I
won’t remember their faces
either, ten minutes from now.
But I’ll string my memories back
to the hands. The mother’s long
fingers, attached to her palm,
Gently guiding the girl, whose
hands are too soft and small
to carry anything but a balloon.
Here’s a tale of wonder and magic —
a child pure and unprepared
for the changing colours of a
spring evening above and below
Karthik Keramalu is a writer. His work has been published in The Bombay Review, The Quint, Deccan Herald, Film Companion, etc.
Featured image: Tricia/Flickr (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)