unfoldings // january, 2021
no one will ever understand what you and I have: our hardened hands, our sanctuaries of resilience, our inseparable selves.
We are part and parcel / In shadow, nothing dissembles / Our darkened universe. You understand? / For I have told you plainly how it is.
- D.H. Lawrence
I was going to write about the oscillatory movements of this January, the cool winds coming through the gaps of winter and window, the postponement of my job until next month, the overall languor amidst the luxury of being yet alive and well and loved— but some thoughts came bashing in midway my progress through that piece. I have been angry. I have been deeply upset. I have therefore written some words on mum, for mum. It feels deceitful to write about anyone else right now.
Only the four of us knows what happens behind these doors. The volume of our voices, the rage in our tears. Often, the violence of our words— olympic prowess in vocabulary, if articulation amidst clamour was a sport. I leave flakes of skin under my chair. The calluses around my toes, the raw tips of my fingers. I smell of garlic. Privacy is hot showers with your notes plastered to the mirror. Privacy is planting myself in the corner of my (our) room and turning away from you so as not to see you for a moment. Privacy is attempting to traipse between the kitchen and this room without being seen. Privacy is peeing in the dark and sitting on the seat for a minute longer to the beat of your footsteps outside.
Mum is crying cross-legged on the floor. She looks like she’s melting— eyes shut, melting under the weight of a terrible disease called neglect. No one has asked her how she’s doing. No one has asked about her. She’s screaming pitiful sobs, shoulders strained toward the wooden floorboards— but she gets up, wipes herself dry, walks out just barely composed, but with enough composition that they can’t see what’s really going on. She’s a work of art. She is her father’s living, breathing likeness. This is our resilience— by blood, we’ll strike inconspicuously.
My knuckles and her knuckles— the shapes of our fingers so utterly different, and yet there’s something in our joints that are slowly becoming one. She’s not proud of hers— those hands which have held mine, crafted full meals, drawn a million faces and conceived a thousand textures, stitched my loose buttons up, gripped our baggage tight while taking steps in twos, the braids and ribbons you have styled in my hair. Those roughened, toughened, hardened hands. We remind each other to moisturise. She watches my hands daily in the sink and she insists I use gloves when I wash the spinach. I tell her that feels like an act of betrayal. I can tell your heart breaks. These days, I feel myself an overwhelming extension of you— your second pair of hands, your stronger set of muscles. I have to be— stronger, that is.Â
We’re peeling them, us, you and I, in this sanctuary of our kitchen. You’ve insisted we make it ours— and it’s nice that parts of this house are made a home by the spaces we inhabit together (even as I try to remember what is mine). There is an exactness to the placement of items here that only we know. There is a secret language in our fruits, pots, and utensils— and every day, I help you conjure up some new dish you’ve found from somewhere deep inside your heart. You tell me about the new baker you’ve been watching on Youtube, the stews and techniques and combinations you’ve discovered through Instagram and our nth Korean drama. It never matters to you whose hands are making what— you’re inspired by everything and anyone, touched by craftsmanship, the hard work, seeing others’ joy. Every single pandemic day we have tasted something different. I love that you do this for us, in spite of us, even if it hurts that one of us is not deserving of us— of you.Â
We keep the door shut so no one can enter our heart-to-hearts. We keep the door shut to keep these words in. We’re on a tandem bicycle, you and I— you’re passing over the aubergines with their ends chopped off, the onions with their heads still clinging to their outer layers, we’re keeping the tops of leaks, the skin of potatoes, we’re throwing out the withered outskirts of the Brussel sprouts— and I’m picking up every piece you put down, scrubbing each clean. But they’re yellow, I sometimes say, they’re bruised and discoloured, why keep them? And you always tell me so am I— and we keep you, you keep yourself. You’ve always known my movements by heart; all my smallest sullen faces readable to you. Now it seems it is my turn to learn you— the direction you peel your radishes and the words you accompany these actions with, the arch of your back, the deep-set frowns you carry when you season and the spoon you hold out to me saying, try this. The way you stand with two feet firm on the ground because your father told you not to slouch (and the way you taught me)— but it’s okay, you can lean on me. My hands can withstand these cold waters. I do it for these moments. I do it all for you.
There are only a few of you who know our story— the story of now and forever as opposed to the conjured tales of those who claim us as theirs. You and I have gone through hell and back together. When the door is closed, we’re in Japan and I’m fastened tight to your breast because you insist we discover a new park together, just the two of us— and then we’re in the midst of our first Swedish winter and you remind me of the makeshift Christmas that had to happen even in an empty temporary flat. This is what it takes to make a house a home, to soothe a barely two years old daughter in an unknown land. All these immeasurable histories— you do it all for me.
I could go on, but what is ours cannot and shall not be taken from us. We owe no one our intimacy. These doors are ours to open and close. It doesn’t matter whether you believe us or not— we know each other to be true.
There’s so much behind-the-scenes that you all don’t know about— why there is so desperate a need for sanctuary inside these walls. You all aren’t ready for the truth. I know what will happen when the news gets out: the elders will emerge from their dark dens and they’ll come to claim what’s theirs. They’ll brand you a selfish, gloating, hoarding woman without knowing your substance. They’ll wish for malice on you. They’ll twist our story and elect another as wronged. They’ll accuse you, spit on you, challenge your selfless dedication and call you nothing. And then they’ll try to bury you— forget about you.
Lean on me. When we tell our blighted story, we’ll need to tell it straight and clear— only when asked by those who will sincerely listen, though. No fussing around the interwoven why’s; we must not stray from the facts. We’ll render them silent with our truth. No one can take what is yours away from you. This is your resilience. This is our humanity, your father’s grace, and our humility. To love someone is to stand by them— so you have my word, published, held accountable by these hundreds of readers, that I will defend you absolutely. You gave birth to a woman of bold lines and audacious vulnerability. There is no way I will let anyone tell a lie about you.
You were kneading dough when I read this out loud to you in the kitchen— your palms in motion, your eyes welling up. My heart burst.
Wow Jas. My immigrant arse who's mother is on the other side of the Mediterranean Sea is crying her eyes out in the kitchen. Danke, liebe.