By Zarna
It’s been four months since the old lady’s son passed away, and she has not slept a single night since. The flame she lit while praying for her son's health is the same flame that engulfed him, turning him to ashes in a matter of minutes. Now, the act of striking matches is gut-wrenching for her. They’re no longer a source of light and warmth, but reminders of how her son is no longer in the next room, yelling curses at his wife and children or complaining about the consequences of his actions.
Yet again, she prays and prays for his peace while abandoning her own, striking the matches despite the pain. Her faith is stronger than the complaints of her withering heart. She drowns herself in folklore and newspapers, hollowing out her eyes, but nothing brings her comfort. She thinks about her beloved sister, who died the same week as her son. She thinks about her friends, who are there no more, and waits for her turn to finally get some rest. But her soul seems to decay before her body does.
In a last attempt to tolerate life, she decides to stay with her daughter for a brief while. Her daughter is her only hope, the last string that attaches her to reality.
The daughter brags about not crying at the funeral, claiming to be the strongest in the family. Yet, she spends hours doomscrolling on her phone and losing herself in television, avoiding her agonizing thoughts. She's too afraid to come off as weak. She pretends the wails of denial from her mother after receiving the news don’t still haunt her. She acts like she has forgiven herself for sleeping through forty-three missed calls from her family, having left her phone in another room after a long day.
Cooking and eating have become foreign concepts to her. When the eldest tries to offer comfort, she disregards it. The eldest dedicated her life to her family, working hard to raise her daughters, but she no longer remembers what it’s like to have friends, hobbies, or independent thoughts. All that remains is her passive bitterness towards her own emotions and life, which she refuses to acknowledge. She either goes days without touching anything edible or binges on snacks that ruin her gut. Her health seems to be declining, but her doctor husband finds nothing suspicious in her reports. Her sacrifices out of love have turned into feelings of regret.
Her only concern, her only goal, her flicker of hope is her youngest daughter, through whom she seeks solace. For a few minutes each day, she lies next to her, and the young girl’s smile stirs feelings of perseverance and love. She has strayed away from the truths of life, just like her mother in the other room. They barely talk. The pain is buried, but is it really?
The youngest daughter, an innocent 14-year-old girl, is cursed with intelligence beyond her years and an unfair tongue that doesn’t roll out the words right. She has trouble speaking, yet she communicates her feelings the best of them all. Her forgiveness knows no bounds, and her loving presence heals in ways that words cannot describe. She waits patiently in her room for her mother to spare a few moments. She waits and waits until 3 in the morning, painting landscapes, designing dresses, listening to music, and eating fruit, until her mother painfully steps back into the real world and comes to her. She accepts whatever affection she is offered with immense grace. She looks forward to being in the presence of the only person who seems to understand her. So she waits, transforming thoughts of grief and abandonment into feelings of compassion and resilience.
The only loyal company they have at all times is Loneliness. She flows in their blood and conquers not only their minds but their flesh and bones alike.
By Zarna
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