My eyes are brown… hers are green…
My skin is dark… hers is white…
My home is India… hers is America…
And yet I call her sister.
The faces of the World Racers who come are different every time, but the hearts that pump their blood are the same.
They have been coming for a while now… A team of them will move into the room above our home for a few days at a time…
They help with our homework, braid our long dark hair, teach us how to play chess, and paint our nails.
We teach them how to dance and laugh when they pronounce our names terribly wrong.
Often I wonder what brings them here so far from the families who love them.
The answer is simple and yet hard to fully understand.
They come to love me.
They come to show me how beautiful I am.
They come to offer hope…
My sisters have blonde hair and green eyes.
All for now through the eyes of ten beautiful Indian storytellers…
and one Blonde one…
