Nostalgia revisits the like. Holding decorated eggs and Easter Babka blessed by a priest. Opening mother’s woven treasure-chest wherein stack yarns destined for my wardrobe.
But within flaxen basketweave, dark threads haunt. The face of a cobra in Kolkata rises above the rim. It’s owner grins, having achieved the goal of luring my naivety to look inside.
It’s different this time. The hostess removes her basket’s checkered surface cloth. Tempts me with her smile and the scent of freshly baked rolls. I reach in.
No longer am I stranded in the weave of my mind.