She folds her mother’s saree,
the fabric at the edges frayed,
the loosened threads like forgotten stories.
The jasmine scent still lingers though,
almost as if woven into the silk.
A reminder of the hands that once draped it,
wrapped it around like a whispered prayer.
Copyright©Madras Courier, All Rights Reserved. You may share using our article tools. Please don't cut articles from madrascourier.com and redistribute by email, post to the web, mobile phone or social media.Please send in your feed back and comments to [email protected]
