I buy cookbooks and tiny pens and I buy candles that cost more than all the cookbooks combined. They promise to smell like the streets of whatever city's recipe I am attempting to replicate. I crush basil and remember my grandfather. I crush cardamom and remember yours. I am making a smoke trail from Lahore to Verona to Washington DC. Across the street my friend labours, bringing life into this winter. Babies always remind me of the cross. The blood. The work. The thin veil between this world and that and the gift. When your grandfather read my palm he said my love line was too deep to not be worrisome. I shut my fist tightly and only open it now to press my palms into dough. I roll until it is paper thin, then bless myself three times over the candle and light it. Whenever your grandfather is he sees my wick burning at both ends.