A poem ending with an important reminder that paradise lies at your mother's feet

My mother calls to make sure I've broken my fast

with the dates her sisters wrapped up and squeezed

into the side pocket of her suitcase, as she flew back to us

and I run my teeth along my gums which are reminiscent of their sweetness.

I'll be home soon inshallah, she says

and I throw a panicked glance at the dishes lining the kitchen sink.

Sometimes I wonder whether there is a future where my cleanliness is next to godliness

where another Iftar is not preceded by on onslaught of flour-covered trays

and pans filled with ghee.

Where the tips of my fingers are not stained turmeric yellow even after I perform wudhu

or where I don't leap forward to rescue a bag of sesame seeds,

split open and slowly crouching over on a kitchen counter

as if itself, bent forward in maghrib prayer—

just at the same moment as I hear my mother’s keys unlock the front door

and I stumble to greet her, before losing all balance and falling in a heap at her feet

which are now surrounded by scattered seeds

and her face, resigned with the realisation that some seeds take a little longer to grow up. ◆

Find N.K. on Instagram.