At the doctor’s surgery

A metallic-sounding buzzer goes off
Black words flash on a yellow screen:
“Miss Ghayas to room G08”

A man stands, reaches out a hand
“Come along, Miss Ghayas,” he says formally
The girl is so small that her feel dangle off the chair
She hops down, takes her father’s hand

“Let’s go, Miss Ghayas,” he says
The tiny girl’s laugh rings like a bell

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Darkness / Light

They were together in the dark; but the lights came on, and they fell apart

 

(some things can’t survive being seen)

Summer

The grass wilts and yellows, turns to straw, but people go to the parks and lie under the sun anyway
Bare earth baked dry until it splinters
Above the tarmac the air shimmers like magic in the boiled afternoons
Windows are thrown open, curtains fluttering, and the streets echo with conversations and arguments and different kinds of music
The smell of next door’s dinner drifts into my bedroom, and my stomach rumbles

Moving In

Her belongings start appearing:
A shampoo bottle in the shower,
An extra towel on the back of the door,
Food in the fridge
One more toothbrush

The kitchen is tidier;
The floor is swept
The cobwebs disappear

I come back home and there is someone waiting for me
There’s music playing
The smell of cooking
She asks if I’m hungry;
She made enough for two

“Do you want tea?” she yells while I’m working
In the late evenings I can hear her in the other room
Chatting away to her boyfriend
The silence that usually fills these rooms
Banished at last

Pretending

At first glance you might be mistaken into thinking he was a man, with his moustache proudly perched on upper lip and his broad shoulders. But look at little closer, at the nervous eyes, at the twitching hands, the thinness of the jaw, and the eyes. Especially the eyes. He’s just a boy. He’s just pretending until these clothes fit him.

Modern Woman

He calls me a “modern woman”

And I am not stupid enough to take this as a compliment.

 

What he means is this:

I do not fit his view of the traditional woman.

The traditional woman is demure;

She blushes prettily when complimented.

She submits to her husband.

She does not have strong opinions

And never disagrees with him.

She will let him take the lead

And she will follow wherever he goes.

She is a beautiful work of art

For the husband to admire the shape of

But she lacks personality. She lacks

Personhood.

 

Me? I am the modern woman.

When he is wrong, I tell him.

I disagree with him.

I tell him off.

When he tells me he is a better driver because he is a man, I tell him that he is sexist.

I know that I am loud, headstrong, and unwavering in my beliefs.

I am rude. I break rules. I don’t understand boundaries.

He tells me there is something unattractive about women like me

And on some days, I believe him.

I worry that I am corrosive, aggressive, intense.

I feel the weight of this body:

Broad shoulders. Thick thighs. The fat lying across my hips.

This body jiggles.

It does not fit nicely in dresses.

Some days I leave the house

Only to retreat because my body tells me I am too ugly to go outside.

Some days I hate myself.

Some days I think that I am too strong

And that no man will ever love me

Without wanting me to change.

 

But there are heroines who are like me

There are women who give their opinions freely

Who stand up for themselves

Who will not submit to this idea of traditional.

There are women who challenge other

With their words, their actions, or their fists

They are women who do not choose tradition

But choose passion, career, excitement, adversity – the harder path.

These women can be found in books and on screens

In poems and on the city streets

In rural villages and in hospitals

These women have existed throughout history

And their endings were usually written for them.

 

So yes, my body jiggles.

It is imperfect and a bit broken

It causes me pain

I try to love it like a Christmas present given by an obscure not-quite-relative

That I will hide beneath the bed for years

Before letting out into the light of day.

My thighs are large

But they are also strong

When I’m running I don’t feel so ashamed of my body

Because I feel powerful.

 

He says he wants a woman who will submit to him.

I say I want a man who is my equal.

If I am strong, let a strong man love me

Let him know I am a modern woman.

The Silver Birch and the Evergreen

I’m walking to my meeting with her and the wind is blowing and the noise the trees make is enormous and overwhelming. I walk fast, head down, hair wild. When I’m nearly at her building I stop and look back at the path I’ve taken.

On either side of the path is a tree. A solid evergreen stands to the left; it’s branches are solid and unmoving, leaves barely swaying. On the right is a birch tree, bending, buffeted by the winds, branches bending perilously until they look close to snapping.

I go to my meeting.

“How are you?”

I’m fine.

“Tell me about your day.”

There’s nothing to tell. But I think of the trees and that image of the two of them, side by side, separated by the path. I tell her about them: about how one stood firm while the other wavered. I tell her I am the tree on the right. I am emotional and buffeted and close to breaking.

She nods, takes a sip of tea, considering.

“In a storm, which tree do you think is more likely to survive?” she asks.

I think of the way the silver birch swayed.

“A solid evergreen tree that can’t bend might end up snapping. A bendy, flexible tree could move with the storm and survive.”

But the strong tree provides shelter. People could stand beneath it when it rained and stay dry. People could climb into the branches in summer. Nobody wanted the silver birch; nobody chose the silver birch over the evergreen.

“Being affected by things around is not a weakness. You can come alongside people when they’re sad and cry with them. You understand people better because you’re moved by them. A silver birch might look delicate, but it’s still standing. And think about the roots of the tree: in evergreens, they’re close to the surface. You can see them coming up through the grass. You never see the roots of a silver birch – they go deeper than you think.

“You are stronger than you think.”

Maybe I’m like the silver birch.

Maybe that’s okay.