What if Tomorrow 

What if tomorrow I woke up in your arms, 

tiptoed on hardwood in a place I call home?  

I tiptoed in my home. Around glass, pennies, 

words. My mother afraid, my father almost gone.  

I used words like queer and love. I was afraid, gone.  

I left myself in my mother’s orphaned broach.  

My mother, an orphan, is left a child 

searching for home in the wrong zip code.  

I found my love in the wrong zip code, scooping 

ice cream on a bench outside a church.  

I’ve always been outside the church. I pray, 

I think. It sounds like a gasping 

for air. My grandma celebrated my first gasp, 

tied me to Ganesha, from whom I’ve since awoke.

*

Sonia Aggarwal is a Boston-based writer with an MFA from Emerson College. She is interested in cultural and personal histories, and the moments in which the two intersect. Her work has appeared in Common Ground Review, SWIMM, SoFloPoJo, Worcester Review, and others.