The softest part of the white Mundu
was the part
near my Ammamma's waist,
a million times she wiped
her hands at that spot,
Wearing it thin, but the cloth
never really gave away,
standing its ground,
Like her.
It was also the favourite spot
For her grandchildren
wiping their snotty noses
and sticking fingers, while
Ammama hugged them
Or gave them a sweet.
That Mundu had seen
years of love and trust
Weaving generations into its folds.
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