With the whistles of the pressure cooker and sizzling papadums humming in the background
A KABOODLE and SNOODLE would sound as I scuttled across the cold floors
Of my grandparent’s house to their wardrobe.
Looking over my shoulder with a devilish grin, I’d carefully open the doors
The swirls of fragrant jasmine above my head would surrender
to the pungency of Grandpas mothballs.
Mothballs, the protectors of Grandpa’s flawlessly stacked 15 shirts of the year.
Wearing a cloud puffed crown at the summit of the pile would be his new.