Shalini Pattabiraman

Intersections

At seventy-two, my mom takes a broken cup, fills it with loose earth and plants a little succulent. Perhaps she’s the only one counting leaves like a mother counting the fingers and toes of a newborn baby. 

amber warning
in his hands
a paper boat

My son finds my father’s origami books. Our time together becomes a new memory. The frog jumps and the crane flaps her wings.

My hands mindlessly fold leftover paper into tiny butterflies and place then on his paper boat. Smilingly, my son tells me captive monarchs cannot fly south.

border check-point
in her pocket
a letter of introduction

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About the Author

Shalini Pattabiraman shies away from the mantle of a single identity; a restless traveler, she is learning to read the world through symbols.

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