Suman sitting in his chair in his garden, sharing his thoughts with me. I long to write them down, but no, Suman says. These are the words written in the sand to be washed away when the tide comes in, scooping them up in her arms, and carrying them back to the mother sea. Ideas I grasp that are new to me, planted in my mind, budding with colors of love and God. Pondering over flowering thoughts of wisdom. Discussing religion, Hiya's accident, and ancient customs. I am learning Hindi! He is expanding his English! This is our time, our special moment, in Suman's garden. Laughter consumes the air we breathe. I am content. The day does not contain enough hours. Idle ways are unknown to me. A wish bursts forth like a blossom from my heart. Suman has watered it with his good nature. I wish for Suman's garden to flourish endlessly, for Suman to sit in his chair, and me in mine, and for this day to never end. But Suman says, "The show must go on."