Incompetently tending to my burns, I consider the impasse. 

In the months since I buried my mother, I have known grief with intimacy. I have acknowledged its visits like that of a neighbourhood cat, greeting me with familiarity, yet never quite belonging in my home. Even now, I recall my days under its all-encompassing, watchful eyes. In the hues of heavy dusk, I clawed at my stomach, wretched with remorse. It watched. I can see myself now through its eyes, breaking skin, parting muscle, forcing my hand through, up, reaching for my heart. The snap of ribs only solidifying my resolve as I yanked the pulsing thing out in front of me. Let me soothe you, I begged, I pleaded. It watched. Somewhere, distantly, a mother held her weeping child and echoed my cries. I remember watching the mangled organ in my hands slowly stop beating as the world dimmed and lost light. 

Perhaps inevitably, in my return to the land of the living, I found courage. Gingerly, I shifted my weight, careful not to upset fresh stitches while tenderly forming verses of prose. I crafted fearfully, dreading the violent threat of my own heartache until I felt words flowing through me, freeing the held breath I had come to work around. Pleased, I clutched my work close to my chest, holding it tight, dried blood still under my fingernails. 

Still wary of how my misery may maim those around me, I had been living as a recluse. I would spend my days sleeping under fluorescent lights, eyes screwed shut, trying to fool myself into believing that the sun was shining on my face. The blood behind my eyelids refused to warm, yet never cooled enough to let me know peace. Frustrated, and sensing the rising tide of my melancholy, I quickly, and somewhat reluctantly, opened my blinds, sharing my creation among vaguely familiar faces. Friends, not of mine, but of a version of myself that I could no longer reconcile with.

The whispers came intrusively, encouraging at first, revering my words before urging me to reveal more, sign deals, make money. I tried to argue back, protective of my art. They laughed at my ‘eccentricities’ and called me naive. Deafened by the noise, I fought off out-stretched hands reaching to shake mine. Let me sell you, they begged, pleaded. I felt a palm grasp mine, bending my unwilling fingers backwards in agreement, shaking robotically. Gripped with fear, I ran. In my haste I left my work behind and they pounced, methodically clawing, tearing. Commodifying my grief into something unrecognisable.  

And now, I find myself here, exhaling smoke from the fire that has filled every crevice of my body. 

Briefly, upon my arrival, I wished to be set alight and see, just for a minute, my horror engulf the world around me alongside my body. Instead, the flames quickly burned out and left in their stead a gaping hollowness, nauseatingly familiar. Looking out across the summit, I watch ducks swim in the lake below, sporadically placed like nails pinning the sky upside down. It would take less than 30 seconds to simply inch a couple steps forwards and let the water rush upwards to greet me. And I am too exhausted to even consider fathoming the strength it would take to turn back and face the world. Absent-mindedly, I reach to stroke the cat that has appeared beside me. It watches, wide eyes mirroring my remorse. Waiting for my decision. 

I recall one particularly humid summer’s day from my childhood, watching my mother piece together a jigsaw of pottery on the picnic table. Kintsugi, she explained. Kintsugi is the Japanese practice of mending broken pottery with gold, highlighting its imperfections. A beautiful manner of healing. Since that summer I fear I have healed my fractures one too many times now; there is little left for the gold to hold together. I wonder how the Japanese judge which shattered vases are worth saving. 

I wonder if I am worth saving.

A couple of feet to my right sits her headstone, humble and unassuming but difficult to ignore. Stretching out my stiff and aching limbs, I lie parallel to where she rests. Watching the embers behind my eyelids, I picture myself sinking down, warm dirt embracing my body, welcoming me. The ground moulds itself like soft sand around my body, covering me. Entombed in the darkness I sink down, down until I can inch my seared hand over and take hers in mine. The smell of her powdery perfume mixed with sweat, the shape of her wonky index finger, identical to mine. No amount of glue or gold can soothe the innate instinct to need your mother. 

Perhaps I am not ready for the earth to claim my charred flesh, yet the soft soil offers comfort beyond any alternative available to me. Ready and willing, I offer myself to the ground. Take my sacrifice, let maggots feast and tear apart my composition, fertilise growth. I am little on my own and I do not have the strength to foster growth within myself. I wish to feel the weight of my body give way to something. Something that cannot be taken from me, nor I from it.

Yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that she would scold me for forcing myself somewhere that does not welcome me. Not yet, anyway. 

When I was 12 years-old I ran home from school, cheeks stiff from tears, limbs aching, much like they do now. They don’t want someone like me on their team, I cried to her, swallowing down my self-pity and embarrassment. She considered me for a moment, before shrugging. Then find another team. I would spend another few years tagging behind friends who would forget me and teammates who would exclude me before I fully understood her. 

I laugh to myself, realising that, even now, I have run to my mother’s side when faced with bullies. 

A trail of ducklings are led to the shore. I inch closer, watching. The breeze passes through me and I wonder if I am already dead, if I was even alive in the first place. 

I wonder if I will always rely on grief to create. 

I wonder why I spend hours dissecting and interpreting my hurt when I am determined for peace. I wonder if this is an easier way out. 

I wonder if I will go home. 

I wonder if my mother is waiting for me. 

I wonder if I will make the same choice as she would.

With as much clarity as I can muster, I move.

***

Sun beams filter their way through canopies of greenery, dancing on the lake, bouncing upwards to be reunited with the sky. Small birds float effortlessly, meandering, come alive by the soft breeze, singing to themselves as they travel onwards. From the summit, an ant watches, eyes squint. In its periphery sits a boulder twice its size, and a cat, lazily stretching its limbs, soaking up the sunlight. The ant sits for a while, considering. The cat does what it does best, and watches. With insurmountable strength, the ant lifts the pebble and turns its back on the cliff’s edge, making its way home. 

Kulsum Shabbir

Creative Editor