YOUR LITTLE CHILD

by Nancy Ganguli

Call me home again.

I am still your little child.

I grew up, married a tall swarthy man

from across the seven seas,

but I am still a little child of this land.

I have traveled many places,

embrace diversity, sway my head

to rhythms of distant rags.

But inside still lives

your little child.

Simmering scents

of vindaloo drift

from my home

more than fragrance

of roasting ribs of beef or pork.

I long ago denounced

the sole salvation path

of my childhood faith,

pray to no god, proudly yet quietly

proclaim a humanist morality.

Still, deep inside

lives your little child.

I smell a Christmas tree,

hear strands of, “O holy night ...

fall on your knees!”

and I know

I am still so much your little child,

filled with longing,

for your arms, your nurturing

— you, my mother,

        my culture,

           my country —

Call me home again.

I am still your little child.

                       Nancy Ganguli

                       Dec 9, 2003

                       Springfield, IL