Writers Workshop

Sturdy and voluptuous,

this basket once belonged to my Mother.

She came under its spell in 1950’s India

where she lived with my father and me

in a British compound.

Perhaps its beauty compensated some for her loneliness.

It became a sewing basket

full of buttons, thread and thimble,

hidden under its domed lid.

Years later when my Mother’s estate

was diffused, this basket full of tangled thread and remnants

was one item I chose to keep.

Why does it speak to me so?

Whispering its ordinary loveliness and fidelity

and holding its contents secure and private—

I think it embodies my Mother’s struggl...


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