Vignette 2: Life Blossom

Stone

The stone paths lead onwards
Into a place of food and
Greenery
We stop to catch our breath for
We must keep going
Or else the power
The guard has over
Us
Might be
His food


People

The day goes onward
We go through the
Gate
The one which separates the
Good, Allowed People from the
Bad
No-Badge People
We are all people but
Who we really are is not
Our Substance but
Our Thoughts


Temple

We still walk yet forward
With the good, and the
Bad
The temple is
Quiet
Almost Deathly
But a small child can still
Give Hope
From the Childishness of
A Giggle


Spice

Hot, cool, flavors
Bright, Sunny, Yellow
Fiery, Hot Oranges
A Cool, Relaxing
Green

We must not
Speak
Only focus on what
Food we have
For
Someday we might be left
To make do with
What we don't have

Vignette 1: The Sweet Side of Me

It was my second birthday party. In India. While I was playing with my cousins and friends, my other relatives were admiring my cake. Uncles, Aunts, and Friends crowded around the large, cake, me not being able to see it. The cake was sitting on the table. I, being two years old, couldn't see it as I was too short, but I could hear that it was amazing. The chatter of my relatives echoed through the room. All of my cousins were exclaiming in delight, but I couldn't tell exactly what they were saying, as they were speaking in Hindi, the official language of India. My grandfather picked me up and carried me over to the table, and I got my first look at what all of the commotion was about. On the table was a very large, oval, pale green cake. Most people ask what was so great about the cake. My little two-year-old mind only realized it a few minutes after I went over to the cake. On the cake was a drawing in icing. That drawing was of my two-year-old self. Not a photo cake, but an actual icing version of me. My same, light brown skin color. The short little black pigtails. A pair of dark, blue jeans. A bright red t-shirt. All down to the same white socks with red and blue stripes, and white tennis shoes. Being at the age of two, I didn't know what to do when I saw my "sweet" minion, so I put my hand out as if I were to high five it. Or her. Or she. I don't know what to call an icing version of me. My grandfather stopped me with his tan brown skinned hand, just as I was about to touch the figure. A feeling of dark purple disappointment flooded me, like a river after an angry storm. I wanted to mess up the cake so badly! It's just not every day that a two year old girl gets to high five herself on a cake for her birthday