Didi

WRITING BY TAMANNA SOOD DESIGN BY DEVON LEE

It’s a bitter phantom sting. It seems to be forgotten in your memory, yet everytime you graze over it, the pain of how it felt right when it happened hits you again. It’s lodged deep into your skin and yet can be seen sticking out. It’s far too deep to grab with a single pull, yet the splinter lures and taunts you with the idea. The splinter’s treachery is that everytime you try to grab it with your bare fingers, it moves further into your skin. Hence, a tool is needed for the retrieval. In my case, it’s always been an ice cold sewing needle held taut in my Nanima’s hands that punctures my skin and pulls out the splinter. She’ll carefully run her index finger over the splinter, doing her best not to hurt me. Yet she will soon purposely puncture my skin and draw it out using that same needle. It’s just custom practice. In order for the healing process to begin and for the pain to dissipate, the wound must be opened again. In Punjabi culture, we fight pain with pain. The saying, loha lohe ko kattha hai (metal cuts metal), is what we live by. We fight splinters with needles and we fight grief with mourning. The sorrow of grieving and the pain of a splinter exist in our bodies the same way. The initial sadness and sorrow of mourning soon dwindles, but the wound inside you will, at random times, remind you of the pain that you once felt. The way we go about healing from splinters is the same way we go about managing our grief. We mourn, we swallow our pain, and silently continue to grieve again.

It was white.

The sheet covering the carpet in my living room when I came home from school that day. It was loud.

The throbbing of my anxious heart that I heard in my ears the day I found out. It’s lonely.

The permanence of her departure.

The movie reel plays again. The sound of the old-timey movie countdown murmurs as the scene starts. The staticy multiple color tv stripes flash in my mind back and forth. The sounds are alive once again. My sobbing grandma, the pin drop silence in the room, the apologetic faces of the visitors. The image of the room seems to be collapsing in on itself in my head and seems to only be held up only by the constant ringing in my ears. The random and ill timed remarks of every side character.

“She was so young.”

“She was going to be a doctor”

“Is she really dead?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“She was such a good girl.”

“She had achieved so much.”

“She really loved you.”

“I feel bad for her fiance.”

“You never know. It was probably drugs.”

“She might have killed herself.”

It’s so and memory of this day has played itself over in my about a million times. When the smell of the jasmine incense hits my nose at a random thrift shop, when I’m studying on campus and the light of the library is a little too similar to that of my childhood living room, when I’m six shots in at a college party – It’s boring at this point. And yet, it causes me to stop in my tracks and shuts my body down everytime. My eyes will involuntarily start to swell and my throat will close.

Suddenly, I’m fifteen and afraid again. I’m back in my living room hearing the sobs of my mother. Day is soon turning into

My dad is pacing house wearing an expression I’ve never seen before. My uncle is right at me expression while tears start to spill down my cheeks. And then I’m back remembering that

It was a 2011 silver Ford Escape. It had a large bumper with uncanny resemblance to an alligator. She and I used to sit and talk in it for hours. The late night ice cream trips to the convenience store. The hours driving to and from Bakersfield. The days we used to sit with our legs hanging out of the trunk eating our takeout. Every part of us existed in that car. From the pink glittery steering cover to the overflowing glove compartment to the thirty rollerball perfumes hidden in every seat pocket, the car was something we built together. The safe haven of a little girl and her big sister. It was a silly and impractical vehicle. It was bulky and huge. Something you wouldn’t expect a five foot tall girl to drive. The car of have been. I think about him every now and then. You never properly introduced us and I understand why. He was there for years after even smell the sky blue sea car freshener that rested on top of the air conditioner. The trunk was bigger than an apartment and yet she managed to always fill it halfway. There was always a pair of scrubs and a whole plastic container filled with different shoes. It was my favorite place in the world.

We sold the car about four years ago against all of my wishes. I was old enough to know why, yet young enough not to care. The world had officially taken her away from me that day. The car she had promised to teach me how to drive in. The car she had promised me she would take me to my first club in. The car she promised me we would have our first drink in. The car was everything that could

Much like removing splinters, there are moments that I find tional damage of childhood trauma, passed down through generations find