by Victoria Dorain

Created on: December 16, 2011   Last Updated: December 17, 2011

Our grandmother prayed in a corner,
Kneeling, tiny pillow in front of her.
Her skinny waist banded over,
And white shawl covered dark hair.

My sister and I were behind her -
Secretly tip-toeing closer,
Wanting so much to hear first hand
What was she supposing.

It was quiet. Her whispers flown
Into the arc of old, tired hands.
Her words were foreign, unknown,
As if never going to end.

I was holding my breath. My sister
Told me that grandma will buy us
A biggest doll we can dream of,
All dressed up in shiny atlas,

And that was what she was saying
To Allah... I believed sister's word,
Being barely two-years-old, I was sure
That the doll was worth such great effort.

We lived since day after day
Enlightened by such big fervor,
But then mother took us away
To our Russian grandmother.

That was first and last time
I've heard someone praying for us:
To save us; to keep us fine
Long time in her round house;

To know our father; to drink
Horse milk and to know her ways.
I remember that prayer always
When of my Asian grandma I think.

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