Things That I’ve Cried About in Luteal Phase
The devolution of pugs. Him lifting all his furniture just to find my phone. My niece’s voice notes from when she was still a toddler. The Artemis II mission. Emily Gilmore’s loneliness. A pea that smushed unexpectedly. Monarch migrations. The unfurling leaf on my pothos. My mother’s youth. Her mother’s youth. That flight when the older lady next to me quietly handed me a napkin as I ate my sandwich. Avocado pits. Cherry pits. Armpits. Poor pits. Audrey Hepburn’s childhood. The letters alif laam meem. The freezing New Year’s Eve huddled on Charles Bridge as we could feel it shaking under the weight of a thousand people. Kissing him under the midnight fireworks and never seeing him again. Tax policy. The housing market. My student debt. The federal debt. The tarot deck she brought for me at the picnic last week. A duck shaped lamp. My polycystic ovaries. My sister-in-law’s IVF journey. The moon. The way my dad checks the weather wherever I am. Climate change. Seasonal allergies. Farmers. Farmers’ daughters. Farmers’ sons. Dark purple. Paisley patterns. The smell of henna. The picture frame that cracked and fell. Toddlerhood. The rooftop in Karachi where our moms would let us dance in the rain. Being three years old. Making a mess eating mangoes. Ring-around-the-rosy. That time my kulfi fell and my brother stepped a little closer as I cried. Frilly socks. Playing with roti dough. The smell of rosewater. Kopiko coffee candy. The bottle of gin that keeps getting emptier. The Mughal Empire. Lawn cotton. Chikankari. Pure chiffon and silk. Colonization. Decolonization. Partition. The IMF. The fourth glass of champagne with my girlfriends as the sun set on my rooftop. Solitaire. Never quite learning Teen Do Paanch. The leather bookmark he got me from that popup shop. How he made sure I got my coffee just the way I like it. His birthday still recurring on my Google calendar. Moon River. Mehdi Hassan. Eucalyptus leaves drying and falling off their stems. The history of butter pecan ice cream. Zora Neale Hurston’s last days. The way he held me as I sobbed that time we got too high. His last voice note. My artificial imagination. The cleaned up spreadsheet that’s never quite perfect. That python bug that taught me more in one week than a bootcamp did in three months. Lumbar pillows. Smart lamps. Monthly facials. Debating Botox. Equinox membership. Airline miles. Packing cubes. The underlying guilt of having more than I ever thought possible. The feeling of still never quite having enough.
Image: @alev.neto