Among the Sunflowers
In a sunflower field in West Virginia, during a hot August morning, I watch as Charlie happily makes his way through the vibrant yellow flowers. A pang of envy strikes me as I notice other children hiding among the sunflower stalks, their perfect round heads and symmetrical faces on display. I suddenly long for the familiar scent of Charlie, so I crouch down to kiss his cheek under his blue helmet. My older son, on the other hand, tugs at my shorts and laments, “Why can’t I have a helmet like Charlie?” Jealousy takes root in him, a mirror of my own struggles—to see our unique qualities as burdens rather than blessings, an inability to recognize our own beauty.
Lobster and the Song of the Loon
Each of us arrived at the lake with aching hearts, longing for solace. I worked as a waitress at a resort where city dwellers sought refuge, indulging in lobster and the soothing melodies of loons. Meanwhile, he washed dishes, our hands touching subtly while exchanging our shared burden. With hope in my smile, I offered him shells and husks to express my affection. After our shifts, we met by the water, patiently waiting for the tranquil voice of the loon to pierce through the undisturbed stillness of the lake. It served as a symbol of the peace we had traveled far to find, a fleeting moment of connection as our eyes met, like the flickering of fireflies.
Conversations With Nana
In Hindi and Urdu, “Nana” refers to a maternal grandfather. Despite our ability to converse in both languages, we spend the sweltering Delhi summers in blissful silence, finding solace in each other’s company. Each day begins with a crossword puzzle and ends with a card game. Together, we preserve mangoes for pickling, feed leftover roti to cows, and construct model airplanes. And on my birthday in July, I never fail to ask about my mother’s childhood, curious to know what she was like when she was my age. With a gentle smile, you hold my hand and I express my gratitude, saying that you are the best Nana.
Marching in Unity
Renny’s poster, bearing the words “Black Lives Matter,” was smudged by black ink in the pouring rain. After a period of distance, we were reunited in his condo, where we crafted posters on the bed we used to share. It was a rainy day in Toronto, with hundreds of feet splashing through puddles on Yonge Street. As people chanted “No justice, no peace,” Renny joined in the chorus, standing by my side. He will never fully comprehend the experiences that come with living in my skin, but on that day, during that protest, he marched alongside me. He marched for me.
‘Pluck, Bandage, Smile’
My summers as a child were filled with the occasional splinter. Whether it was from gnarled docks or jagged playgrounds, these were the marks of an adventurous day. Despite their frequency, I treated each splinter as a novelty, shedding fresh tears at the sight of the wound. Healing came in the form of my great-uncle’s patient care. I would sit cross-legged beside his koi pond as Uncle Freddie delicately removed the wooden slivers from my skin. His method was simple: pluck, bandage, and smile. Of course, my cooperation came at a price—a successful extraction earned me a single maraschino cherry straight from the jar. As a child, the process of healing was bittersweet and oh so satisfying.
What Remains Visible
When my ex-husband passed away this summer, I didn’t think I was grieving, but my body told a different story. My sleep became restless, I found solace in overeating, and I even mistakenly drove towards our long-forgotten home instead of my current one. Sympathy notes arrived from friends, urging me to “cherish the good times.” Surprisingly, I found that I could. In the old photos that our adult children requested, I can see the sheer joy we experienced. I can see the undeniable connection between my ex and me. Perhaps this is a gift of aging—to acknowledge the hardships without dismissing the moments of pure happiness.
We Melt Together
I met Katie during the peak of a Louisiana summer. On our first date, we shared beers at the park while swatting away pesky mosquitoes. On our second date, the rain poured down and I watched Katie’s hair expand threefold in the humidity, mirroring my own unruly mane. The pandemic forced us to meet outdoors, where the heat would dissolve any pretenses. Now, a year later, we drive with the windows down and take midday walks. We often describe our bodies melting together like chocolate. While most in Louisiana dread this weather, we spend our days in love and under the sun, melting closer together.
Our Silent Bond
On a recent summer evening, my husband and I found ourselves sitting by the fire pit at our home just outside of Chicago. We watched the flames dance, feeling a mix of exhaustion and contentment. If someone had observed us, they might assume that we had nothing to say to each other. However, after 38 years of marriage and a day spent biking and working in the backyard, I couldn’t help but think, “Who else could I experience this with? Who else would I want to share this silence with?” Hours later, we checked the embers, covered the pit, and silently made our way to bed.
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