She wears her festivals on her ears, hair, arms, on gilded gold parrot cages dangling in crisp miniature from earlobes, on freshly plucked jasmine buds in her hair and a thin plume of its scent that formed a trail behind her, in a magenta skirt, blouse, shiny with a silver zari: and in the green-glass translucent bangles that drew me and clinked every time she gesticulated. She wears her inheritance, like her festivals on her ears, hair, arms, on the scarab-like lesions above silver anklets, on her neck a scaly black pendant, on her reedy, hollow frame, in her blood where tiny insects exploded off ballooned cells, each other, multiplied, grew legs, and stomped deep through her veins, leaving a swath of destruction. Come again, she asks. Yes I answer. But playing a fast reel in my mind are questions I cannot ask; What if, in the morning, the rickety, metal bed with peeling white paint, is stripped of sheets clean —the blotched brown rubber mattress showing at angles, and the floor below being swept? Or worse, is occupied by another little girl, who on her ears, hair, arms also wears her inheritance?
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