It always starts the same question,
a tilt of the head, a small grin—
why Karma, not Katherine or Jane?
And so, a story becomes my duty.
My father, a man of quirks, believed
names steer destinies, like rivers turning.
He claimed I was balance, retribution,
but said so with laughter, not gravity.
I’ve woven tales for curious strangers:
his love for Eastern philosophy, reincarnation,
a visit to Delhi, an epiphany in spice air.
But the truth is simpler, less luminous.
He liked how it tasted saying out loud,
and thought names should hum with irony.
Karma, born to a man who’d admit
he never quite learned cause from effect.
How strange to carry a name so heavy,
yet speak it lightly as a falling leaf.
Every meeting begins with the same
dance, their smile lingering, waiting.