Honesty Pants

"how was your trip?"

a poem

by Sarah Wyckoff

India was cataract surgery on my soul.
It was a
mike-tyson-kind-of
handshake;
A swift punch.
straight in the face of my
worldview.

I could not have asked for a warmer welcome.

So when perfectly straight American teeth open to ask me
Sister,
Why is your smile so messed up --

I will proudly crack open my jagged jaw,
expose my toothless grin and
give way to the glimmer of golden treasures buried deep
within my Indian chest.

Such a fortune
I cannot keep to myself.

So I will say,

"A crooked smile is a testament of straight vision.
We are all blind until we realize we cannot see."

And in Gandi's backyard, I saw train station pillars become pillows in al fresco throne rooms
For kings who lost their castles in a previous life.

I saw bubbles give six year-old beggars back the childhood
that was stolen from them.

And in Mother Teresa's province,
I saw bindi's and burqa's worn by
mere mortals who would never think to adorn their immortal promises
in any other place
than squarely on their face.

And in the blue room of
House Number 12-68,
Hydrabad, India
I saw the face of humility.
It was fifty-six years old with an army of lines carefully written with wrinkles.

There was a library of stories in his eyes; none of which I could read because anguish is a language I have not yet learned.

But he said to me.
On the final morning.
In the kind of English that reminded me beautiful things are always broken.

He said,
"My child. Daughter. I ask. Pray for me. Please. My family, my children. We are frustrated. At God. He took my wife three years ago. We do not know happiness but we do know hope.

Our hope is heaven.

And even though this may be the last day I see you here on earth,
I will rejoice.
Because this good-bye simply means we are one day closer to the hello that awaits us in heaven."