Mom
174 Series: Only Parent
I’m not sure if idyllic is the right word to say when I was enough to be between two arms.
Or mom was when her own flesh materialised in front of her.
The glacial weather was bearable because her tiny reflection warmed her insides, she said. A winter’s tale started that day.
It still persists. A perennial winter.
The youngest daughter has birthed a girl, in a man’s world. Hence, a gilded cage is a must.
The exception is, mom was in the cage too. And now even more than I am.
I made a gigantic dent, but mom couldn’t fly through it.
The horrors persist, but so does her flailing wings.
174
All I know for a long time is that my grandpa built it all by himself. The cement, rods, foundation prep, the entire tumultuous, tiresome process.
Third aunt
Single women in Bangladesh are thought to be miserable without a husband. And through injudicious doctrines and naysayers to catalyse the idea, women do internalise so. But for an abridged time. Or not.
Fourth uncle (and aunt)
Usually a stoic and intellectually wise figure, many opine my uncle as a rather reclusive wallflower.
I love this
WOW, the way you unravel generations of sacrifice in so few lines is both powerful and tender. Beautifully written, Tasneem