and so,
I think it is meant to be.
I sit beside her,
take her in my arms,
murmur against her ear,
“Za ta sara meena kwam.”
I speak to her in Pashto;
my voice is sure to break
if I attempt English.
She fists my shirt in her hands,
pulling me closer,
her long hair whipping in the wind.
She exhales, shaky, and says,
“Mati, please. I don’t want you to go.”
“I have to. You know I do.
I cannot forsake my family.…
Not yet.”
My parents and I
have spoken about the future.
Baba is unhappy,
but says he will try to smooth things over
with Panra and her family.
I think, perhaps,
he is envious of my autonomy.
Mama thinks I am selfish, foolish, idealistic.
She cannot look at me without disdain.
My parents’ displeasure
will never be enough
to keep me from her.
I take her face in my hands.
