I am sofia
I am from the walls painted pink, purple, and green. The compromise that emerged when three little kids all wanted to be seen, a compromise that defines the chaos of my life.
From the couches and chairs I flipped over as a kid, my excuse being I was an elite gymnast.
I am from the missing pots and pans that no longer seemed complete, like one of us without the other three. And from the wooden swing, twisted and turned until it finally broke leaving only a legacy behind.
I am from the red rose bush that has seen more blood and tears than anyone or anything, whose prickly thorns cut deep like the words and the roots that grew like us three.
I am from the baby blanket and picture frames hung on my wall. The ones that have been with me through it all.
From Jeet and Simran Grewal.
I am from impulsive decisions and late night laughs and from the shattered glass after fights that were never made to last.
From gestures of love hidden in home cooked meals whose steam took away pain and the scars that were made to steal.
I am from the endless afternoons spent at the gurudwara doing anything but pray.
I am from Grewal and Bhullar, from the roti and rice that were always up for debate and the tiny little fights at dinner which always ran far too late.
From the rooftop jumping and flying kites and the endless sips of chai rooted in the bold flavors of life.
From the spilled glitter to blood that ran head to toe, that cul de sac has seen it all. Every silly little game, every silly little fight and strong pure friendships developed, not to be broken by the curse of time.
I am from those moments of chaos only the toy room has seen. The moments just painted pink, purple, and green. Simple solid colors any outsider can see, but as you look deeper the hearts of three little kids built from broken glass and endless chaos can be seen.
From the couches and chairs I flipped over as a kid, my excuse being I was an elite gymnast.
I am from the missing pots and pans that no longer seemed complete, like one of us without the other three. And from the wooden swing, twisted and turned until it finally broke leaving only a legacy behind.
I am from the red rose bush that has seen more blood and tears than anyone or anything, whose prickly thorns cut deep like the words and the roots that grew like us three.
I am from the baby blanket and picture frames hung on my wall. The ones that have been with me through it all.
From Jeet and Simran Grewal.
I am from impulsive decisions and late night laughs and from the shattered glass after fights that were never made to last.
From gestures of love hidden in home cooked meals whose steam took away pain and the scars that were made to steal.
I am from the endless afternoons spent at the gurudwara doing anything but pray.
I am from Grewal and Bhullar, from the roti and rice that were always up for debate and the tiny little fights at dinner which always ran far too late.
From the rooftop jumping and flying kites and the endless sips of chai rooted in the bold flavors of life.
From the spilled glitter to blood that ran head to toe, that cul de sac has seen it all. Every silly little game, every silly little fight and strong pure friendships developed, not to be broken by the curse of time.
I am from those moments of chaos only the toy room has seen. The moments just painted pink, purple, and green. Simple solid colors any outsider can see, but as you look deeper the hearts of three little kids built from broken glass and endless chaos can be seen.