I carried dahlias from the Persian garden of the Ispahani ghetto in Dhaka, and placed them on my grandmother's grave.
As I stood in mute memory of childhood and a troubled youth, silent tears rolled down on Shia ground where my Anglo-Saxon past lies buried.
I knew then, there would be no resurrection, that my mountain links and all our turbulent days lay deep in Deltaic soil, beside my grandmother, and that you had gone, like her, away to another country.