A Healing Experience.

 

In a field of my insecurities and short-comings, she plants flowers. Previously, it would be left unattended to. No one to look after it as it grew more and more. Why is she doing this? She doesn’t have to waste her time like this.

With a whisk of her graceful hands, she masterfully composes art as beautiful as her existence. I try to stop her but the feeling isn’t like anything I’ve experienced before? I am loved and surrounded by a constant feeling of fuzziness. “Relax”, she says. I am stiff at first, but gradually let her consume all of me.

The flowers she plants are little parts of her own self. They merge into my dry field to grow instantaneously, almost like fruits that are only meant to be grown on a particular soil.

There aren’t many things that I am grateful for in this world but she is as transcendental as all of the objects in the universe combined. To have her in my arms can be described as feeling, all of the warmth of nature’s creations in a rub of our atoms.

You are the light of my eyes and the food to my soul.

So come into my arms and let me love you whole.

shams

 

 

-Asad A. Shamsi

BBA.

One Day.

One day

I will be

as brilliant as

I can be.

One day

I will rise from this slump

And shed this skin,

My flesh will be tender and pink

but it will be new.

The selfish aura lining my limbs

Will burn up in itself and leave

Only the ashes of empathy

I will rise like a Phoenix

Shining red and gold,

I will be confident, I will be bold

My light so bright, I will illuminate

My entire being will jubilate.

I will be courageous and just

The universe will witness,

One day is all I need

To start the rest of my life, as a brilliant new me.

-Aqsa Baiq.

The Hidden View.

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Everything is silent, all is still

No one around to view the thrill;

Small, tiny light

A shadow moves

The petals move, start to sing

Wind picks up, nature’s music starts

Starting at point base, feeling in the heart

Born to feel, always live the same

Never let the soul ever be tame;

Starting to move, step by step

Slowly at first, but fast at last;

Keeping in tune to the sound of the heart

Finishes, beautiful spin; tidy dancer starts off again;

A silent applause, for no one to hear

A feeling of gratitude from those who are near;

Still no one around, absolutely no sound

But a smile suddenly creeps while around everything sleeps.

The heart always goes what the heart always carries

Never give up the feeling that you hold.

-Warisha Akbar.

My Grandmother’s House Smelled like the Best Days of My Childhood.

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When I think about my grandmother, I think about her kitchen. Out of all the places in her cozy little home made of wood and knick-knacks bought from yard sales, perhaps it was my favorite. I think about the first days of summer break when I would skip across the stone path to her house, hop up the stairs and turn the door knob. My grandmother did not believe in ever locking the door during the day. She felt it was un-American.

And as I would push the squeaking door open (she could never remember to oil its hinges), I would be greeted with a blast of warm air mixed with the smells of cookie dough or freshly baked banana bread. It always smelled like food in every corner of the house.

I would hear my grandmother’s radio turned up to full volume, the music dancing all the way from the kitchen along with her humming to the tunes of a Bee Gees song. I would peek into the kitchen and find her back to me, sashaying her well-rounded bottom in a floral printed maxi to the song as she worked the stove, something sizzling or crackling in the frying pan or baking in the oven.

I think about Sunday afternoons, helping her dice spring onions and potatoes and garlic, the smell of peppers and capers wafting in the air. I would wear a matching apron and she would tell me how a way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, but everyone fell in love with my grandmother once they tasted her cooking.

My grandmother’s kitchen was like my grandmother: bright and cheery and covered in floral prints, from the kettle to the tea cups, the table cloth, the oven mittens and the pans. Dirty dishes would be piled up in the sink as neatly as dirty dishes could be piled up. There would be something boiling in the kettle; it would always be tea time for her. Her collection of tea leaves in small glass jars would be stacked in a neat row in open shelves displayed next to the stove: chamomile and jasmine, chrysanthemum and peppermint.

The kitchen smelled more like my grandmother’s home than any other part of the house. It smelled more like my grandmother than the scent on her clothes; all the love and warmth, cookie dough and peppermint. It was my grandmother in a nutshell. I guess you can say, it was as much living and breathing, as much alive as her.

 

-Sarah Jafrani

BS-BioSciences, 3rd Year.