Chilly, dark winter mornings were the best of times.

On an early morning walk I peer 
in storefront windows to Mumbai Express,
Dosa Hut, beehives of activity readying 
for lunch. Rows of shiny stainless steel trays 
set high over tiny blue pilots warming
– biryani, kurma, vindaloo. And heated bricks 
wrapped in aluminum foil tossed inside 
bread baskets billowing with poori, papadam and naan.

I’m reminded of my mother’s memories when 
her mother heated bricks on the wood-burning 
stove in the center of the room
the family shared. She’d wrap them with rags,
place them under each child’s feet to let the heat
radiate from foot to heart to top of head.

Moving like a blind person who had memorized 
where the toys were kept, the chifferobes were,
she’d reach in, silently slip our Catholic school uniforms
off the wooden hangers and drape them
over the razor back radiators that sizzled and hissed
like ancient dinosaurs protecting their young.

Hugging walls, they’d send intermittent blasts of
steam our way … the clothes would be hot, we’d be careful
of zippers, metal snaps that would burn your fingertips.
The chill had left the cotton shirts and blouses
the jumper warmed me from chest to knees … 
better than any brick over any fire …

Now I let myself into her house. Arrive to slip
towels into the microwave to wake her stubborn,
stiff fingers until they curl around 
her first cup of steaming coffee.