There was a life, and it had good days.
And in that same life, were bad days too.
And you may find it funny if I were to say,
That in that very same life, were some worst days,
That I went through.
Worst, because we couldn’t smile
Or eat, or sleep.
Not because we didn’t have food or pillows,
But because it didn’t feel right.
To eat, or to smile,
On those days.
My father, once chirpy and loud,
Was so sick, he started shrinking.
His memory fading away.
In the polluted air of my city,
The same air that infected his lungs.
It was the absence, of his ‘whole’ presence
That made our days worst.
On those days,
We’d steal glances, my mother and I,
Smiling at something funny someone would say,
Or at an inside joke that may have resurfaced.
I’d do that in my alone time as well,
Smiling at things that were funny – a crime;
I thought I was committing,
Until, one evening, on a resurfaced inside joke,
I saw her eyes searching for mine,
To steal a forbidden giggle perhaps.
Or perhaps to reassure me, that it wasn’t wrong
To eat, or sleep.
Or to find a moment of happiness.
And maybe to even share it,
Even on the worst days.
Atifa Haroon, 22, is a student of MA English Literature.