Feeling Cotton

I fall asleep on pillows with a garden of little embroidered flowers on them.
Thinking of the linen dresses I used to sleep in as a child, the cotton shirts that I have now grown to adore. The delicate kurtis hanging in waiting to be worn.

I miss the drapes, white cotton ones, with a Bagh printed border swaying in the evening breeze during the Indian summer.

Cotton, a silver cloud, floating in the air, sinking heavy with rain. A heart made of cotton, gentle and light that turns a pale white, and softens each time with a cold wash.

Cotton is the pink candy and the skies that burn in its magenta hues.

Cotton is the healer, when your knees are a little bruised.

It is also the dust cloth, wiping traces of thoughts settling on the window

Like a ball of snow, that melts in your palms. Cotton melts on you yet hugs you warm.

Cotton is tender, it tears with a firm pull. It doesn't resist and knows to let go.

Cotton is plucked from the fields, and for me from my faraway country dreams.

Written By Julia Saha