Isn’t it strange?
She just stares, quietly.
Soaking in every little detail.
The silk, the gold threading, everything…
This, one time, was her mother’s sari.
It was one that she wore; dressed in.
The only thing left, and much better than pictures.
The sari, folded, is slid into her small, open hands.
Ashavari fingers the intricate border, so curiously, so wonderingly, so delicately.
And she takes action, finally, by unfolding the sari, wrapping it around.
She wants to wear it, no matter how big it is on her.