Windows

Sometimes, another’s memory,
becomes your own.

            In 1992, you saw pines in California.
            Those trees have grown since then;
            and their needles have changed color.
            But their scent you brought along,
            still perfumes my cupboard.

            In the mountains of Dharamshala,
            you photographed a bee-line of houses–
            small granite walls with blue doors,
            their windows that ascend diagonally.
            I stare through them, to see
            this world through your eyes.

I keep watch on your memories,
only to become their safe keeper.

- Ardra Manasi