An Inventory of All the Things I’ve Hoarded 1. Cluttered pens with dried pigments, novel upon a stack of crochet manuals, keychains, and coupons collecting dust. Fragments atop a writing desk he rarely used— scent of aging paper sewn into the underside like the wire framing his glasses. 2. Gold splinters through mahogany (jahan ammi ki churiyan rakhi hain). Each strand stretches into days that etch themselves in ceramic fractures and, crumbling pages, letters inked with surma she lined her eyes with every morning. Folds in my knuckles are filled with dust but I'll wash it away with the dirt beneath my fingernails I call grief. Her wrists were always adorned with gold— meri ammi ki churiyan hain. The soft clank of cold metal lulled me to sleep, eyelids heavy (did I hear the end of her story?) watched gold catch light with the gentlest of movements. Ammi ki churiyan kahan hain? I’ll measure time in things I’ve held on to the longest until she notices her bare wrists.
Paronychia Her fingers tremble. She’s making another patchwork piece— needle through the thread. She doesn’t flinch anymore when her fingertip is pricked or when the machine hums, piecing together scraps of all she has to cover a quilt or a cushion. She gathers remnants when she is done and doesn’t create a pinwheel this time. If there are rust droplets on the tablecloth— if the end of the needle glistens, It will mingle with orange cutouts circular with loose threads. Grief is the dirt beneath her fingernails stained with henna, every fabric she has ever held scattered from her room to the dining table, and the cushion under my head splattered with bright fragments. Repeated knife motions against a chopping board, Reading leisurely while the ends of my shirt fray: will I decorate my house with orange cutouts saturated in sweat and rust? Will I sit in that chair with my back to the sun, watch the hallway stretch before me? Will I pick at the scabs and scars marring my hands? Perhaps I’ll learn embroidery instead and someone will comment (offhanded) “You’re etching your past on a clean canvas.” It’s just needle and thread.
Fatima Javaid is a writer based in Pakistan. She is a college sophomore, and when she isn’t panicking over assignment deadlines, she is either napping or pacing around.
