By Sanzida Alam
My days have blurred
like the wet henna stains on my fingertips.
Each fading line,
a day close to elsewhere.
Thirty days left.
Each one peels away
a face, a corner of home
a street I walked a thousand times.
I wanted this –
the scholarship letter,
a dream stamped by a foreign visa.
But want and farewell
speak two different languages.
Even joy comes with mourning.
How does one carry
both a suitcase and
the weight of leaving?
I eat mango slices more slowly now,
as if sweetness could hold me back.
I take the long way home now,
even when I don’t have to.
I linger in my mother’s room
fold her scarf a little tighter–
Then unfold it again.
My room is already a museum
of the things that I can’t pack.
The city has begun to look like a goodbye.
I walk slower now,
as if I could memorise the dust
before the plane lifts it from me.
Sanzida Alam is a Bangladeshi writer and researcher passionate about exploring social issues through her work.
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