Objects.
For several moments, we turned to the windows.
There were shades drawn.
We turned and.
For several moments when we turned we gathered information.
The windows were gone.
There were places of lights in places of lights.
TOK
Chasing Snowflakes
A moment such as that one clings like a snowflake to your sleeve. You admire its intricate beauty as it quietly melts away into a memory. It’s these thoughts that sit on my shoulders, as I pace the city tonight. With every step I take along Carlton Street, those days seem a life time ago. All that surrounds me is a damp weight of night air. An air filled with complacent specks of moisture that refuse to crystallize. I fear the chances of seeing another perfect Christmas has whipped past me like a bitter winter’s wind, as this year it finds me alone, for the first time.
It seems tradition has become antiquated. I can see the evidence in the buildings around me. Behind the shadow of tarnished streetlights, Maple Leaf Gardens fades into the background. Its geometric brickwork is lonely without its iconic marquee. The blue and white banners have been pulled down as this once great landmark waits for its new grocery store awning.
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
Dear Professor L
Dear Professor L,
Right now it is 1:41 in the morning, and I was just about to go to bed. When I lay down, a thought came to me about you and your warm words this afternoon. I am worried I could not say the answer to your question. It was not because what you asked was too personal. It was because I was too astonished by your generosity and did not know the proper way to answer and express my thankfulness. Nobody has ever told me that, or offered to help me before, and I learned from you today that asking for help may not be a bad thing after all.
My parents always told me that I was the reason why they came to Canada. To give me a better education, and a life that they could not afford when they were young. But after standing beside them, watching the pain they suffer, I am not quite sure if I am worth their time and sacrifice. Recently, I was at a hospital with my mom, who had surgery. I cannot forget how desperate I was, how I looked for someone to talk to and lean on. Sometimes I even wonder if I will ever be good enough for them. I feel guilty for making them give up their life and family in Korea to come here. I am exhausted because of the things in life that are so questionable and vague. A lot of feelings cross my mind and I can’t get them to equalize.
I hope I am not making you uncomfortable with my story. Please tell me if at all, if you feel awkward or disturbed. Although I hope you do not.
Sincerely,
Jennie
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
The Son-in-Law
“No,” said Taseen. “They’re all lovely people but I’m not letting you and Ami arrange a marriage for me. I am perfectly capable of choosing whom I will spend my life with. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, if you’d let me finish. I’ve met someone.”
Rizwan folded his paper and sat there silent, his hands slowly gripping the arms of his chair in suspense. His wife set aside her knitting. They stared at their daughter, not knowing what to say.
“Well, as long as he has Muslim values,” he said, like a burst of hot air after the long silence.
“He’s not a Muslim,” said Taseen.
The sides of Rizwan’s lips curled and his flesh began to produce an odd jaundice, as blood abandoned his face and rushed down to his stomach. “What does this non—Muslim do for a living? ” he said in a quavering voice.
“He’s an artist.”
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
Next Time
I can’t help but feel guilty when I see Tito Sisi’s fond smile. I don’t know what’s happened to Tito Sisi’s wife, children or other grandchildren—no one bothers to ask—but Tito Sisi’s living arrangements stand in stark contrast to Papa Lamig’s in Toronto. Papa Lamig is tended by strangers and visited once every two weeks despite living minutes away from his three sons, three daughters and sixteen grandchildren. Meeting Delia makes me want to visit Papa Lamig, give him a hug, hold his hand, read him books and tell him about my day, though even as I think of it I know how silly it will be trying to shower love on a man seemingly so averse to affection.
“I like what you did to the place, Tito,” Dad says again.
Tito Sisi looks around. “I suppose I’ve maintained it well,” he says. “You tell your dad that, Ton. Let him know that I’m taking care of the place, even though he should be the one here. He’s the one that wanted it, after all. I never did.” But his voice lacks all his earlier, angrier conviction. Instead he sounds tired and, for the first time since we’ve started talking, old.
Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 7. Purchase the book to read the full piece.
Contusions
i.
Spine twists into pomegranate streets
no words for deformed faces, desecrated
bodies not yet covered in white.
Hope drips from tips of fingers moulding home
in the glitter of rooftop cries to god
in a dua blown into jasmine wind
in a bullet blasting inside a woman’s chest.
Hope drips in battered limbs between
batons, broken bones across
broken earth. Home.