By Aaditri Gangwaar
I heaved a weathered trunk of dreams,
Rusted, a lone vault of aching grief.
Its creak mimed a shrill, ghostly shriek,
An unborn’s muffled cry, pale and brief.
A stack of handspun sweaters lay,
Blush-kissed florals in casket’s stay,
Craving soft touch, coarse and askew—
Each thread still longing for her view.
Musty mittens and fleece swaddles,
Pressed beneath the knits and ruffles,
Bereft of wriggles, giggles, and trills—
Of an angel lost to tyrannical wills.
A fleeting memory filled my mind,
I traced my belly. “Is this a sign?”
“High and round, a girl,” she swore—
The midwife’s sigh, a timeworn lore.
Unaware of the world’s cruel says,
I dreamt of a little girl night and day.
My son, with wonder, grazed my form.
I exclaimed, “A sister will be born.”
Little did I know of fate’s cruel thread.
Voices rose high, a cacophony of dread.
“Daughters bring ruin, she must not be.”
Citing burden, they pressed their decree.
In that chaos, I relinquished my womb.
Hands bathed in blood, sealed by doom.
Beneath the blade’s cold, ruthless glint,
I partook in my clan’s heinous imprint.
Years passed, swallowed by oblivion,
Until fate wove me a quiet reunion.
And now I unseal this old, worn trunk,
To enrobe a grandchild in love unsunk.
As she chuckles across the backyard,
Her gurgles mend my soul’s shards.
Wrapped in florals, she smiles so bright,
Reborn as kin, to claim her right.
Seizing the relics the trunk once bore,
She begins carving a fate much more.
No longer shackled, no longer shunned,
With quiet fire, her new dawn stuns.