House and Home

Fatima Hafsa

The familiar horn, 

6.30 pm in Multan.

I push open the brown iron gate,

Abu brings the white Khyber 

into the garage,

shaking his head in disbelief 

at his 16 years old girl using this 

big metal contraption like a swing.

Did I take his briefcase and lunchbox

or did he carry them himself?

The details elude me.

He hardly ever had other people do things for him.

I want to be a good beti.

Holding his things when he came home tired 

gives me this feeling.

Multan was hot and dusty,

dirt gathers on my memory

like the aandhi that we always got

instead of rain.

How do I contain his scent

and his voice

and keep them safe 

with intricate keys like the one for the locker 

we kept in the store?

The steel almari

travelled with us from one city 

to the other,

one house to the next

till it came here

lying spare in the back alley

of Ami’s house.

It lost its purpose

as did this beti

who couldn’t save him

whilst saving hundreds of people before

and since.

BLANK

Once, I knocked over

a full cup of

tea and it ran over the glass table top,

stained the carpet.

Everyone ran to cover 

the liquid with tissues,

the white crumpled papers 

slowly turning brown.