The Dead Hydrangeas
b"I remember Tuesday mornings as smelling vividly of home-cooked spiced lentils and hydrangeas, just the way I had always liked them, pink and freshly plucked, not from the plant, but always from those fallen to the ground.\\nI remember me running down the stairs, skipping two steps at a time, squealing like the wind - unstoppable.\\nBaba would always wait at the mouth of the yard, eyes pretending to be nonchalant by my hurricane appearance, but his body always leaned forward toward his self-made garden while clutching my hydrangeas behind him, in a way that clearly conveyed: the man was more than just a little proud of his handiwork.\\nThe kitchen, as I recall, was a good 100 steps away from Baba's yard, which always meant that him and Maa were rarely on the same page, except when it came to me wearing Baba's hydrangeas in my hair and galloping to the land of spiced lentils owned by Maa, to show them off to her.\\nThat was the only time I remember them smiling together from across the house.\\nI realize I never really grew up and out of this routine. But for some reason I can never understand, I can barely remember the other days of the week.\\nIt's like now, I only wake up on Tuesday mornings that smell like home-cooked spiced lentils and hydrangeas, just the way I had always liked them, and when I rush down the stairs to meet Baba in the yard, I find Maa standing there too, joining him in his nonchalance, and neither of them even notice my hurricane appearance.\\nThey just lean forward towards the ground, and mourn the dead hydrangeas."