Thieves

 

I was seeing my father in my dreams over and over and we were both crying. Last night, his chin crumpled. Mine did too. My throat was parched, and I rested my head on his shoulder, the linen of his tunic smooth under my cheek. We could hear each other without moving our lips. I thought, why did I steal this time from us, living on the perimeter of your existence, out of the shadow of things your hands have touched, I must pull you back like you reigned in those strings of disappointment after losing kites in battles in the sky – is it ever too late? And he thought, mybabymybabymybabymybaby. I thought, please don’t die, look after yourself, let us heal ourselves, let me have some time now, it’s all I ever wanted all those years ago – a few good hours, you, present, you, listening, you, talking, you, there. Why did you let me walk away? And he thought, mybabymybabymybabymybaby. I thought, could we start again from now, let’s go to the Old City, I will sit on the bonnet of the car, we will have Baba’s Street Kebabs, talk about misrepresentations of love over steaming skewers and cool rings of salted onion. And he thought, mybabymybabymybabymybaby. Teach me another life lesson, something pragmatic, not just a quote for an audience. Mybabymybabymybabymybaby. No. Listen. Stay. Listen. Please. Mybabymybabymybabymybaby. Do you see me? Do you see how far I am now? Meet me back where we diverged, where I broke free. Mybabymybabymybabymybaby. Listen. Listen. Wait. Mybabymybabymybabymybaby. Just answer me this. Do you forgive me? Are you proud of me? Mybabymybabymybabymybaby.

 

by Noorulain Noor

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Noorulain Noor is the Associate Editor of Papercuts, a publication of Desi Writers' Lounge. Noorulain is a member of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Spillway, Spry, Sugar Mule, ARDOR, aaduna, Santa Clara Review, Poydras Review, Apeiron Review, and other journals; it has earned a nomination for the Pushcart Prize.