by Anika Ajgaonkar
The Old Wishing Well. Joseph Zona, Mar. 29, 2021.
Shrouded with mist in the vaults of my mind,
A stone well sits, older than humankind.
Filigreed with plaits of vines and moss,
It leads down into a world of history lost.
I crank its rusty lever, stiff and slow,
And down below its wooden pail goes.
It sinks into the darkness, for a truth to find,
Leaving the present world behind.
The deepest water is murky,
Clouded with shadows of the past,
But drawing the pail back up
Brings clarity at long last.
Squinting down past weathered stone,
I see my great-great grandparents flee
As flames ravage their home, ornate temples smashed
So they may freely worship their Devas and Devis.
The pail draws closer
And I watch my grandparents move
To Mumbai, city of opportunity
For their lives to improve.
Plink! With a drop of water, the image ripples away
And my parents appear, splendidly dressed in reds and golds.
They circle the blazing sacred fire, their flower garlands sway—
With their marriage begins a story soon to unfold.
They fly to America
And make themselves a new home
In a land, oceans away from their family
And so culturally different from their own.
As the brimming pail finally returns,
The water cold and clear,
I peer inside, only to find
A child's reflection appear.
Her eyes look up at an endless sky unfurled
Stretching infinitely across the vast realms of two separate worlds.
Her face transforms; it is now myself I see
Filling the ancient well of time with a drop of history.