FOLDS

My mother enters the kitchen after a long time. I 

study the folds in the skin of her hands as she prepares 

to cook me a meal. How we like to smoothen creases, 

rough edges. Rumpled bed sheets, wrinkled office shirts, 

the wooden chair to sit on in the balcony. Bumps on the 

roads that lead to Mother's house. A broken healthcare system,

the relationship between another daughter and her mother. 

I think of the time when these hands were smooth, though 

no less fragile. How they whipped up delicacies from different, 

shores, known and foreign. How those hands pounded grain, 

carried bags laden with vegetables, pulses, rice, flour, flowers, 

fish, meat, love. How they turned coarse rice grains 

into the smooth batter of fermented dosa. How they 

sponged your fevered skin. I return to my present 

and hers. She takes her time to soften the dough, 

bringing one crease on top of another. As her 

small, wrinkly hands work the flour one little fold 

at a time, I learn that folds are the best. They yield 

the softest bread. A mother's aging, softening love.