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"rasam" poems
I am filled with the emptiness of a teen. With my hands crossed behind my head, I am lying down on the floor. It is gently pouring and the little drops hailing against the banana leaves is a pleasant sound. I have my feet up the window sill with the curtains fluttering. My room is dark and I can see the streetlight filtering through the tiny window. All of a sudden, a familiar smell catches my attention. Amma is making rasam! My stomach grumbles involuntarily. Although I am lying here with my feet exposed to the cold breeze, I feel like I am there watching her grind the pepper. I close my eyes and imagine her moving around the kitchen, asking me to stay out of the way. I smile. Rain and rasam had always been a tradition at home and this made me happy. I open my eyes. I wipe a tear off as I know I am a thousand miles away from home.
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Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 10:56 AM UTC
dee_oddity
Rain and rasam
I am filled with the emptiness of a teen. With my hands crossed behind my head, I am lying down on the floor. It is gently pouring and the little drops hailing against the banana leaves is a pleasant sound. I have my feet up the window sill with the curtains fluttering. My room is dark and I can see the streetlight filtering through the tiny window. All of a sudden, a familiar smell catches my attention. Amma is making rasam! My stomach grumbles involuntarily. Although I am lying here with my feet exposed to the cold breeze, I feel like I am there watching her grind the pepper. I close my eyes and imagine her moving around the kitchen, asking me to stay out of the way. I smile. Rain and rasam had always been a tradition at home and this made me happy. I open my eyes. I wipe a tear off as I know I am a thousand miles away from home.
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