On Packing Away My Mother’s Saris

What wisdom lies in those boxes

I can’t say. Stories folded into

Silks, sweat lining into the borders,

Witty repartee shining from gold

Thread and sharp orders printed

Into patterns, all this lies as much

In my fingers pleating new drapes,

Ankles skirting new edges, shoulder

Blades skimming new necklines. 

What wisdom then, in stacking and

Hoarding and packing. What strength lies 

In lifting each sari, feeling it

Against my face - the cottons the

Tussars, the embroidery, the lace -

I can’t say. Those boxes don’t store 

Away the rustle of her quick steps

But I can hear her on a good day -

The bustle and movement like

An outline of the house and us,

Stick figures, snug, fitted in. More

Than wisdom lies in those boxes, less

Than memory, something yet to wear.