I'm writing a letter to my sister
and I can't pent more than a sentence without aching.
Without mountains welling in me, up from my deep parts through my chest and throat and mouth.

There are tears pushing past the corners of my eyes, choking love in my throat.
I love her so much, and penned words won't do. But they must.

She'll be six thousand miles and cultures away soon. Tucked in the mountains, looking beautiful and graceful in a shalwar kamis, loving her own five children and a whole village as well. With strong love, mountains of faith rising from the bottoms of her feet. Humble, servant feet who love so well.