In Other Times, Other Places
Al Reem Al Beshr and Emma Anderson Love, to my 7-year-old self, was defined by late night story book reading with my dad and my mother cutting me fruits. I had to wait a few more
years to realize that in other times, other places, parents show their love by praying for a person you don’t wish to become. Love moves through
other ways. It slides between my mother’s palms as she braids my thick black hair. It pulses in my hand as I rub my father’s belly. It is the secret
escape hatch when I feel trapped. Love crawls up my throat and places itself on the tip of my tongue, it falters for a moment then slips away. Is
it in my stomach ring-a-round-a-rosieing with the fruits, or is it grasping
onto my ear filtering every word I hear from dust and debris to sprinkles
and confetti? Love trickles out of my eyes as I stare off into the distance waiting for my boomerang of affection to return and propel the tears away.
Love, to my 19-year-old self, is a bottle of champagne shaken 10 times. The cork bursts out of my belly and up my throat followed by a tiered
fountain of butterflies. A butterfly ballet. It no longer hesitates. It dashes across my tongue somersaulting, cartwheeling, and backflipping. It
doesn’t always stick the landing. But, in those moments, in other times,
other places, I have myself. I wipe the sweat off my forehead only to see glitter.
Inspired by page 39 of Ru by Kim Thuy
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