Photographer by Karishma Sangtani

Back from England, my sister and I
wrap our fingers around the remnants.
Wooden window frames and steel plates,
cobwebs like garlands. We are fanatical,
unlatching cupboards as we go. Here
are the valleys of dust and camera film
and columns of writing. The old years
are lining up like anglers at a stream.
Now we are gathering, taking the bait
and taking the bait. There, my grandfather’s
photo album, thick as my wrist.
I invent his hands behind the first shot,
the crunch of the shutter, the sky over him,
wobbling with quails. I do not invent
the bills it took to raise six children,
nor his real job, on the trains.

 

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