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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() When orange hugs red in the horizon, my mother twists her fingers around the knob of our gas stove and sprinkles minced garlic into popping oil. I bask in the pungent smell of sesame and ginger in the
Dinners my mother creates every evening her hands moving rapidly across the stovetops, dipping into cilantro then paprika and Turmeric. She curls her fingers over Thyme leaves and nutmeg bottles until her palms are An abstract painting of spices and oils. She allows the Turmeric to spill over, mottling Her fingers, through the creases and indents of her palms, flowing rivers of fine yellow Under her nail beds, into her hair until it Is in front of us, plated as egg curry or fish, the Turmeric staining our fingers too, our tongues And then our hearts. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
October 2023
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