By Alika Gupta
I’m convinced that if you could have witnessed an evening so incredible and thick with muted yellow mustard, my grandma’s impossibly wrinkled hands and my grandad’s hair tangled like golden grass, people returning to homes smelling like hard work and slow postcards, ankles intertwined and wrists awkwardly holding coke cans,
cold coagulated masses of noodles being revealed at 11:30 a.m., broken-hearted thoroughbreds winning races and master’s heart, if you could have witnessed them watching confetti and me watching them, then you would have the nerve to make a lemon pie and eat supper.
By Alika Gupta
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