To Sing, To Dream, To Hold It All
written by: Rakshinda Mujeeb
In the loving memory of Sara Sharif
I endured the pain,
the suffering for ten years.
I could have run,
I could have endured more.
But I didn’t.
Singing melodious tunes was fun.
By the time I learned how to play chords correctly,
Papa was waiting at the door.
He slammed my head against the wall.
I stayed up all night wondering if he didn’t like my song.
“Stop it,” he said,
throwing my guitar across the room,
looking at me with envy.
I covered myself to protect from the beating,
but my hands were too tiny.
It’s fine, I told myself.
It’s just a musical instrument.
School day went terribly.
A headscarf to cover my bruises and
unfinished homework on my desk.
I flaunted a warm smile that rang through
the summer glow, pretending that
I didn’t feel the hurt anymore.
The thought of going back to live
with Mum gave me hope.
Mundane life will be so lovely living with her.
I clung to this thought, barely tethered,
like a kite in a storm, drifting relentlessly.
Papa arrived home from work,
the sound of keys jingling in the door.
The sky was dark, and I could feel my
heart pounding in my neck.
Fight or flight, I asked myself.
I wanted to believe he would
take me into his arms tonight,
And bring me the overdue birthday and
Eid presents.
That night, I had fever, but I wanted to
act healthy so as not to upset papa.
And so I sat beside him while he ate bread.
His eyes were on the warm bread, but
his mind elsewhere.
I coughed.
He grabbed me by my hair and demanded
evidence of taking cough medication on time.
I cried, “I am sorry, Papa, I did take the medicine.
Please don’t hurt me!”
He pushed me down the stairs, and suddenly
I saw myself tumbling down without any pain.
This time, it didn’t hurt at all.
In fact, my courage was roaring because
I just realized, I had left this world.
Tears came anyway,
For the broken guitar, loneliness, deprivation,
the missed opportunities to love.
Did I ask too much of him?
But as I drifted, I found myself whole again.
My guitar lay waiting, its strings unbroken,
its melody untouched by rage.
I strummed the chords, and each note bloomed
into a light that filled the skies.
No longer tethered by fear or pain,
I soared like that kite in the storm,
finally free, finally loved.
It wasn’t a single wound that crushed me,
but his willingness to cause suffering repeatedly.
My heart is no longer racing.
My muscles don’t ache.
Because in this world, I am free.
Most importantly, I am loved.
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