by Simra Sadaf
It is half past nine on an early Sunday morning,
I don’t know if I can make it to the funeral.
I am still in last night’s pink checked shirt,
smelling like peaches and unsaid words.
All I want to do is pull down
a crow from the sky,
and tell him he had my flight taped
to his wings all the while.
I reach home only to witness strangers
whispering among themselves,
I see my father, he looks tired,
like he is lost and thirsty in a desert,
it has taken him 23 years to realize
that unlike his ugly wife,
destiny is something he can not
kick to his convenience,
or choke its life.
I am wearing my mother’s shoes,
I can still feel her fingers slightly brushing
the landscape of my bruised wrist.
one evening, when I was eight,
we were sipping tea in the dining room,
and she kept saying the nicest things,
I felt like amongst the two of us,
God was present that night,
the same way He was there
when they dried a grape and when
Ishmael was sacrificed.
It could have been a happy memory,
but the night suddenly went from
chestnut brown to a deep shade of red.
We swallowed bitter words and violation
the way he gulped his bourbon,
strong, no dilution.
The next morning,
her throat was too bruised to speak,
and I became the voiceless one.
He gets up to say his eulogy.
The clock seems to tick faster but
every second seems to last longer.
He rubs his chin, and stands tall,
his sweaty forehead glistening brighter
than my mother’s wedding ring.
He says her name thrice,
in a tone that could melt the glaciers,
I see his eyes welling up and I wonder,
Is this man becoming an angel,
or is he just drunk as usual.
As I watch him carry her on his shoulder,
I let out a silent prayer,
“Unlike life, I wish you a kinder death, maa”
Simra Sadaf has finished her Masters in English Literature from University Of Madras. She writes short stories and poems for magazines. She pursued her bachelors in Sociology and has an abundant knowledge about the workings of a society which she incorporates in most of her writings. She reads books of all genres and likes to review them on Goodreads and other social media platforms. She loves the art of storytelling and someday hopes to write something that will leave a lasting impact on the readers. Literature drives her spirit and words churn her soul.
Hyades Magazine 